Lessons of the Landscape

To my Blackfeet people, Chief Mountain is power. Elders say that when Chief crumbles to the ground, the world will end. Today, I will ascend this bastion of identity. Climbing Chief Mountain is a rite of passage in my family. Unlike the pre-Columbian days, when the Blackfeet fasted for days and requested a vision from the spirit, our family climb now is only a day long trip: a challenging ascent that will help me progress towards cultural maturity with each vertical foot I gain.

Our trip begins with a frantic search for my hiking boots. After futile efforts, I resign to settle for an inhospitable pair of boots that were two sizes too small. Fortunately, years of hiking have taught me about blister prevention. The chilly October air washes over me as a slip my duct tape encased feet into the too small boots. Learning to cope and strategize is essential for triumphing over the inevitable curveballs life throws you.

At the trailhead, my cousin wanders around the cloth offerings to a slope covered in kinnikinnick and a new growth of fir. As I approach him, he says to me, “One of these saplings wants to go to the top. Do any of them speak to you?” I study the slope and listen. I then pick a small budding tree no more than six inches tall. I carefully wrap and tuck it into my pack to carry the young conifer on the long route ahead. Assisting those who are less fortunate than us, sharing with and assisting in the pursuit of their goals complements the journey to our own.

The first part of the trail is relatively flat. At this point, my feet ached with numbness from a combination of the temperature and the constricting effects of the boots. Winding through the brush and old rock slides I keep all of my senses alert. Grizzly bears and mountain lions are fairly common in this part of Montana. Our path fades into a landscape of jagged boulders, some the size of houses. Climbing over the boulders would not only cut up our hands, but would also sabotage our progress through their instability and sharp texture. At this point, I take a lesson from my dog. He follows a rock-free route around the old slide. Though this path covered more ground than the more direct path it is far safer and faster. Looks can be deceiving; the shortest path to your goal is not always the safest or fastest.

As we approached the primary ascent, a massive slope of scree became visible. Scree is a large amount of loose, broken, shale-like rocks that cover a mountain side which makes getting a foothold difficult. A single step forward can drag you down two steps back because the scree is so loose. I attempt to run up the slope: an amateur mistake. My momentum results in knocking more scree loose. I am jolted back and forced to give more consideration to the treacherous sprawl that lies ahead. My next attempt heeds more success because I choose my path with precision, watching for only the most stable of rocks. A more selective vision can assist us in reaching our goals; stepping back to examine and inventory the bigger picture helps our progress.

The false summit lays separate from the true summit by a large chasm. My father chooses to cross this by leaping, which I decide against. My method involves crawling into the partition and up the other side. We take different ways; each of us is comfortable in our own path. There are multiple paths to the same destination; each individual must seek their own.

The mountain looms over the plains like a great god watching over his people. Every aspect of this journey taught me methods for success in my life. In the non-profit board that I serve on, I consider the large variety of ways to solve a problem rather than putting on blinders. In debate, it is easy to become angry with a loss; looking instead at the bigger picture helps me improve. The climb ends with placing my tiny sapling on the summit with a 360 degree of view of Canada, Glacier National Park, and the Blackfeet Reservation of Montana. The lessons I learned today will help guide me through these landscapes, and beyond.