Uphill—it's better that way

When I reflect on the past decade, both here at Kentucky Monthly and in my life overall, I cannot help but draw analogies from the two most significant lessons I learned in the wilderness of the Appalachian Trail.

If we really, and I do mean really, knew just how hard something—anything—was going to be before we did it, there is very little most of us would ever even attempt. Think of how much joy we would miss if we opted to just stay home.

Similarly, if I had really known the odds we were up against and really understood the strain and stress and poverty to which I was potentially subjecting my family, I never would have quit my job to start a magazine.

I would have missed a lot of pain and aggravation, but I also would have missed those special moments when things come together the way they are supposed to—seeing something you dream in your head becoming a reality.

After reading my July column about the Appalachian Trail and the lessons I learned from making the effort, Dick Watkins of Frankfort dropped by a copy of his book A Walk in Search of Meaning, a collection of narratives on discerning God’s presence while communing with nature.

Many people have gotten much more out of the woods than I did, but I was able to gather my thoughts and figure out exactly where I’ve been and where I’m headed—not just on the trail ahead, but as a human being.

I have always approached goals as if I were climbing a hill. If I could just get over the hill, I will have accomplished something, and then, it’ll be downhill—or at least flat—and that, somehow, will be much easier.

With the magazine it’s always been: “If we could just get Diane Sawyer on the cover” or “If we could get that exclusive interview with Johnny Depp” or “If we could just sell $23.15 more in advertising,” we’d be exactly where we want to be, or something like it.

But things never happen exactly the way you expect, even when they happen the way you think you want them to.

Everyone told me that if we could just hang in there for three years we’d know whether we were going to survive. The experts on such things say that statistically a small business—any small business—will fail in the first three years.

But remember what Mark Twain said about statistics: “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.”

When we came into the Kentucky Monthly offices on our third anniversary, it was a beautiful day, and we were hitting our stride. We had booked more advertising for that upcoming November issue than any issue in our history, and there was no sign of things slowing down. “It looks like we’re going to make it. I really think we’re going to make it.”

That was Tuesday morning, Sept. 11, 2001.

Like many people, we started over that day, and we’ve been climbing ever since.

But the other lesson I learned on the Appalachian Trail is that climbing is actually easier. When you’re going uphill you have an idea of where you’re going and you’re always looking up. If you stumble, you trip up and there are lots of ways to catch yourself. Generally, when you’re on your way up, there are people around to lend a helping hand and climb with you for a while.

The climb is of your choosing. You can tackle the hill sideways or straight on. You can take it one step at a time, or you can dig your sticks in and go as aggressively as you choose. You can even decide not to climb anymore or stop.

When you’re coming down, however, your choices are limited. You can’t always see the slippery rock or the jutting root the way you can when you’re climbing.

If you slip, there’s nothing there to catch you, and those who were there by your side on the way up have either chosen a different path or reached the summit before you and kept going.

While you had total control of your speed on the way up, you have little to no control on the way down. It’s a scary feeling. Two or three moss-covered rocks and you could be toast.

That was the epiphany I had on the trail: Absent of a freshly paved sidewalk, you’re better off just to keep climbing—be it an actual mountain, a hill or even a (possibly ill-advised) career path.

Readers may contact Stephen M. Vest at steve@kentuckymonthly.com