It has been two months since I returned from a climbing expedition to the St. Elias Range in the Yukon, and an unsuccessful attempt on the East Ridge of Mt. Logan, Canada's highest mountain at 5959m. It would have been nice to stand on the summit, but as an active climber for over twenty years, I know that retreat and sudden changes, often beyond one's control, are an integral part of the game I play. And the summit is only one goal in the climbing experience-the journey itself is the destination.

The motivation for climbing is complex. In his essay "The Way of the Mountain", Polish alpinist Voytek Kurtyka perhaps says it best: "[My dimbing experiences] generated a great internal equilibrium. They were dominated by the sentiments of gratitude and admiration. The enormous psychophysical stress, and the joy that comes from overpowering it, sets off a purifying effect on our spirit."

In the huge peaks of the St. Elias range there exists one of the finest arenas to test the body, mind, and soul. Mt. Logan sits in the middle of the largest ice fields on earth outside of Greenland and Antarctica. The scale of these mountains is deceiving. Glaciers--rivers of ice with crevasses as deep as your average high-rise building-stretch outward for hundreds of kilometers. Walls of ice, snow and rock soar upward for thousands of meters. When the bush pilot drops you off, flying away to leave behind only the eerie silence of isolation, your little pile of gear on the glacier seems like a tiny life raft adrift in an ocean of uncertain possibilities.

Due to this year's snow conditions, my partner and I were forced to take a significant variation to gain the East Ridge. This cost us some time, but we adapted. Once on the ridge, we found traces of old fixed ropes from expeditions of the late 1950s that crumbled in our hands. Narrow fins of rock and snow seemed to wander forever. I was scared and excited and I loved this place, with its history, its remoteness, its endless white beauty. Mentally I was freer than I'd been in months. But something ill had been progressing in me since we'd landed on the glacier, and I could no longer deny it. I'd been suffering from intermittent vertigo and spinning sensations--day and night, in the tent and on the ridge. I was suffering from what turned out to be labyrinthitis, the result of a viral ear infection. We really wanted to climb this ridge, but knew that turning back was the right thing to do; it was one of the hardest decisions I've had to make. But it would have been irresponsible of me to risk our safety by continuing. We were roped together, and a slip off the narrow ridge would have cost us our lives.

Despite our failure to summit, I have no regrets about the climb. While at first my climbing experiences may seem sharply detached from our world here at Caritas, there are important lessons which cross all boundaries. My time in the mountains always provides numerous lessons on dealing with adversity, change, and even disappointment--something which we all encounter to a greater or lesser degree. Making the right decision is often not easy and fraught with mixed feelings.

Wayne Muller said, "Jesus taught that our pain is not punishment, it is no one's fault. When we seek to blame, we distract ourselves from an exquisite opportunity to pay attention, to see even in this pain a place of grace, a moment of spiritual promise and healing." Climbing, like the life well-lived, is a balancing act of strength, boldness, humility, and grace. And besides, I'll be back again next year!

Words for thought is intended as a column that provides Caritas staff and volunteers with an opportunity to share a word or phrase that has personal significance. All staff, physicians and volunteers are invited to write a column. Please contact Celine Brassard (phone: 482-8276 or e-mail: cbrassa@cha.ab.ca) if you are interested in contributing.