How a Journey Through a Frozen Wasteland Revealed My True Self

I stumbled out of the twelve-passenger van and fell hard. I landed, spread eagle on a pile of slush. I wanted to ugly cry, but a weird, boisterous laugh came out of me. The icy gas station parking lot made it impossible to stand on my own, and I kept slipping. My first vulnerable humiliation of the trip—but nowhere near my last—stemmed from the fall. I skinned my knee and bruised my butt. The others laughed, and Timmy stepped forward to help me up.

The fissures in my fearless, fun, impenetrable shell broke wider. The "on" persona I projected would begin to disappear by the pink glow of dawn. For the next thirteen days, the ramshackle gas station would serve as my last contact with civilization—and heat and electricity. As I limped into the store with Timmy as my crutch, I noticed a lone poster adorning much of the western wall. An old promo for the survivalist, cannibal film Alive elicited what would become my trip mantra:

“What the f? Seriously?”

Timmy shook his head and grinned. “Wanna call your mom and have her come and pick you up?”

Actually, yes. Yes, I did.

My initial fantasy of an epic, Outdoor Magazine-esque adventure gave way to thoughts of a Lord of the Rings trek to Mordor. The latter proved far more accurate.

I ignored Timmy and grabbed an armload of snacks to devour before we reached Mt. Washington's base, still an hour away. I overheard the scrawny, grizzled cashier ask our group leader, Doug, where we were headed. Doug beamed and told him about our thirteen-day camping trip on New Hampshire's highest, most unforgiving mountain.

Scrawny shook his head and declared us crazy. I silently agreed, suddenly remembering my ignored, vehement hatred of the cold. Why had I agreed to this insane winter mountaineering trip?

The drive to the mountains and my chaotic first day

Our group of fourteen set out on a journey of discovery and, hopefully, we'd acquire leadership skills along the way. We'd each received an invite from the Director of our collegiate outdoor program, and the prestige of the invite compelled us each to agree. In the desolate, bone-biting cold White Mountains of New Hampshire, we would “find ourselves.” What could possibly go wrong?

Two certified instructors guided our trek, and the rest of us adventurers served as a part of a Collegiate Wilderness and Leadership Board throughout the year. We sank our collective extracurricular teeth into Board participation, and most of us held at least a two-year tenure. Thus, four females and ten guys embarked from our Pennsylvania campus: cross-country skiing, ice climbing, cooking MREs and the exciting highlight—sleeping in tents in -12° F weather.

During the summers, we became certified ropes course instructors. We took solo, 24 hour trips into the wilds of Colorado. We passed sport-climbing lead tests. And we served as leaders and accountability partners for other campus clubs.

***

We had left Pennsylvania at ten p.m. the night before. An hour into our rambling ride, the van’s heaters conked out—the first foreboding omen.

I turned to my friend, Foster, and laughed, “What the hell did we get ourselves into?”

He chuckled, but I saw no signs of my internal fear reflecting through his eyes. I gulped my panic down my throat. I didn’t think I’d survive my first night in the tundra.

When we arrived at the trailhead, we strapped our 80 lb. external frame packs on—we’d trained with the packs throughout November, but as soon as I clipped the waist belt, I felt sure my pack would cut off my lower body. Mt. Washington had received over a foot of powder overnight and required snowshoes or cross country skis to traverse.

The skis helped me feel lighter, but due to the weight of my pack, I had to lean forward. I leaned too far when we reached the first minuscule downslope on the trail. I tumbled over my skis and landed on my back like a turtle. My arms and legs failed, but I had to lose my pack if I wanted to stand again. I looked around at my peers and realized I was the only one on the ground. I made a joke, but my cheeks burned with shame. I'd stood out as a leader through my time on the Board and hid my insecurities. Now, my dorky awkwardness announced its presence with a bullhorn.

My closest friends in the group began to distance themselves from me as my struggles broke through my veneer. The more I attempted to pull myself together; the more my vulnerability screamed its presence. I fell to the back of the pack. My even-keeled persona gave way to obvious tears of frustration.

Wes, a quiet, chubby freshman, slowed down and skied alongside me. Wes and I had never spoken before, but he became my strength for the duration of the trip.

“We all have our weaknesses, Sarah,” he encouraged me.

I tried to shrug off his helping hand and beamed, "I'll get it soon enough! I totally feel humbled, though."

“You shine in so many ways. You need to learn to let others help you. Let me encourage you for once.” He put a hand on my shoulder.

I wanted to sob and kiss Wes. Instead, I relinquished my pretense of control, and let him help. My humility kept me quiet until we reached our base camp.

“You know what you are, Sarah Paris? You’re a diamond in the rough.”

I plotted my escape as we broke into groups of four and set up our tents. I claimed cooking duty to prove my worth and make up for my struggles. I heated a pint of Tang successfully and felt like Bear Grylls.

“I guess I’m a true outdoor adventurer after all,” I thought as I threw four packs of ramen noodles in a pot.

I covered up with layers of comedic self-deprecation and felt my friends warm back up to me.

As I cracked jokes, I turned my attention to the group. A rancid, burning odor wafted through the air. I looked back, and flames sparked from the noodles. I burned our dinner to a crisp. I apologized profusely, and while my tent group accepted my apologies, no one would talk to me for the rest of the night.

What the hell had I gotten myself into here?

I wondered for the hundredth time.

The next day, we climbed further up the mountain and stopped by a frozen waterfall. I gasped at the magnificence—it looked like Narnia. Our task for the remaining daylight hours was to successfully ice climb said waterfall. Narnia’s appeal vanished. But, my climb proved smooth, and I didn't stab anyone with an ice ax—a win for everyone! I scrubbed out memories of the previous day—an anomaly. Wes congratulated me, and my friends no longer bled disappointed disillusionment over my head.

After the inky night erased the glorious day, we gathered around a blazing campfire. We debriefed and spoke of lessons learned. Doug began:

I think Sarah realized she needs to accept help from others. She does have weaknesses, after all.

My eyes stung with tears. Doug didn’t call anyone else out. I was aware of my weaknesses—I just attempted to keep them hidden. I tried again to strap on my mask of positivity and ability, but instead, I just sat and glared at him.

When the rest of the campers turned in for the night, Doug asked me to join him by the fire's dying embers. I felt like I was attending a one-person intervention. I thought Doug would ask me to leave and explain a car awaited me at the trailhead to take me home.

"You're sweet," he'd tell me, "But you're not cut out for greatness after all."

Instead, he explained how he viewed me as a diamond in the rough. Doug sighed with his profound revelation. I sparkled, he said, but held layers of self-defense and sabotage and needed to chip them away for my diamond-like qualities to shine.

Initially, I felt insulted. I held leadership positions in myriad clubs. I tutored middle school kids. I was a peer counselor. I volunteered to help others wherever I had the chance. As the sun rose on Day Three, though, I began to digest Doug’s words. While he may have meant “diamond in the rough” as an insult, I would wear the moniker as a badge of honor.

A diamond in the rough is still a diamond. A diamond in the rough still shines. Doug's words propelled me through the rest of the trip. A diamond in the rough exudes strength and unique imperfections. I wasn't alone in my flaws—I had just learned how to embrace rather than deny them.

Kate, another female on the trip, exuded panic one day. She pulled me aside and confessed her hidden struggles. I quietly empathized and offered her comfort. Kate feared her weaknesses would break her open. I reassured and comforted her—breaking open isn’t always a bad thing. My imperfections stood on naked display for all to see.

The burden of the impenetrable rock surrounding my “diamond” nature began to fall away. Doug’s words, meant as a passive insult, instead ignited my internal flames. I started to embrace my diamond in the rough.

It snowed in our tent, and everyone fell apart

The night before we planned to summit Mt. Washington, the temperatures dropped to a balmy -20°F. We shoved wool socks around our subzero-rated sleeping bags and ate gummy bears to pump our blood sugar levels.

At 4:00 a.m., I awoke to groans from my fellow tent members. I slowly emerged from my warm cocoon and saw snow—everywhere in our tent. Foster had chosen to opt-out of the wool socks, and as the weather plummeted to misery, his breath caused condensation to form in our tent. An inch of fresh snow dusted our sleeping bags, packs, and equipment.

We popped out of the tent to find other group members sobbing and hovering around a campfire. The "tent snow" threw everyone off their game—except for me. I understood the sudden breakdowns because I'd already gotten mine out of the way. I found myself acting as a comforter and encourager for all.

Dawn broke through the night sky, and we began our summit. A blizzard created white-out conditions, and even Doug spoke of turning back. I desired nothing more than to quit and head to the summit hut, where we would spend our last night on the mountain. But I saw the aches and vulnerabilities of my group mates, and I pressed on.

“A diamond in the rough,” I repeated to myself.

I ended up the first to climb the peak. I turned and helped the others do the same.

I will never forget Doug’s words

I made it to the end of the trip sans total defeat. I didn’t eat any of my friends. I accomplished because I persevered. In the years since the White Mountains trip, it still marks a rite of passage for me. We all have weaknesses. We are all “diamonds in the rough.”

My New Hampshire trip taught me to embrace my flaws. When I climbed Mt. Washington in a blizzard, I discovered strength comes from perseverance. I may hate every step of a journey, but my strength allows me to see it through to its end.

And as I grow older, my imperfections smooth out. I will never reach perfection, and that's okay. The irregularities help me to become my whole self. I want to shine and embrace life. I attempt to love authentically—warts and all—and help others do the same. I owe it all to Doug and Mt. Washington.