Hikes and PhDs

For those of you who have gotten/are working on a PhD (or watched someone else go through the process), you may enjoy the metaphor I discovered this morning in my impromptu solo hike to the "Y".

To set the stage, you should know a few things. I flew in last night after a full day of travelling, which aggravated an old ankle injury. I have been living at basically sea level for the last three years. I also have not exercised regularly since... well, ever. You should also know (as I did not) that "hiking the Y" is not an easy accomplishment - at least not for out of shape first-timers like me :)

I set out relatively early this morning (a perk of jet lag) for a nice easy jog. I thought I would check out the neighborhood, etc. As I was jogging along I looked towards the mountain and saw the Y. I've never hiked the Y, and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea. It took me quite a bit of time to make it to the parking lot and I was already tired by then, but the Y looked so close and like such a doable hike. :)

Here is the experience. Perhaps you can relate; hopefully you can see some parallels, as I did.

(Context for the story for those of you who have not hiked the Y: there are 9 turns or switchbacks before you reach the top and each turn is marked with a sign which tells you which turn it is and how much distance to the next turn.)

You start up the trail with hopes and sights high. I can do this, you think to yourself.

As start up the trail, already tired due to what it took to get there, you cross paths with people coming back down. Many of them are older, and more experienced. Several sport ipods and many are lightly jogging with pleasant expressions and greetings. They're obviously doing this for pleasure. You soon realize, however, what you thought would be fun has turned into a death march.

By the first turn, you have already paused for respite at least three times, looking busy or like you're stretching when someone passes by. You take in the incredible view. You can see all places you have been and the places you want to go; the great expanse of what has been and what will be your experience.

By turn three, you think you're going to die and the thought crosses your mind, next time, I think I'm going to bring water. 

Somewhere between turns three and four you feel like you're going to vomit. The realization that you're only a third of the way there is depressing, but you push on.

By turn five you know you're going die, and sit for a rest - not caring at all how people will judge you. A nice older woman passes you on her way down the mountain, looks at you, and says somewhat mockingly, "Well, you're half way there!" The question you want to ask is, is the second half any easier?

At turn six you look to the view for some motivation to continue. You recognize, however, it's still the same view you've seen the whole way up.

Your back muscles are permanently tight at this point, and it takes increasingly more energy and drive to simply take the next step. You find yourself paying more attention to the mile markers on the trail. How much longer to the next post? You start to question how you're going to get yourself out of the mess you've gotten yourself into. Need an airlift off of the mountain is not outside the realm of possibilities.

The view becomes larger. You can see more, but with less detail and certainty than before. Where's my house again? 

By turn seven, you just don't care. You don't care about the pain.You don't care about the struggle. But you have gone through so much, and you certainly don't want to do it again. You have to reach the top.

At turn eight you realize a decision point is coming. Do you take the higher road to the top of the Y? Or satisfy yourself with the path to the bottom? But then you remember, when have Chapmans ever taken the easy road?

At turn nine you see a fellow struggler; someone you saw struggling as she passed you earlier on the trail. She pauses to take on the view as you continue onward. You take a breather a few feet later and look back to see she's headed down  the mountain now. Not up anymore. Maybe she wasn't struggling as much as I thought. Maybe it's just me.

You can see in the distance a water park waiting peacefully at the bottom of the mountain. Why wasn't that my morning activity?

Definitely the lower path, you decide. I don't care what people think of me. I want to live! I want to go home and get on with my life!

You top the next rise and see white- the Y! You draw nearer and realize you've been on the higher path all along. Well, actually, you reach the middle. but somehow you don't care anymore. You just want to go home.

Dirty, sweaty, and tired, you head back down the mountain. Was it all worth it? I don't know. But I've hiked the Y, and that means something to those who have done it.