Do, or do not. There is no try. There is no try, just do. It is in the nature of man to try, to strive and struggle and fight. At some things that man tries, man fails. This is the way of the world. It is admirable to try things, to persevere and to attempt. But there are those who not only try…they “do”. They “do” in the sense that there is a point in struggle when effort achieves something, whatever it might be. In the end of all things, it is those points, those “somethings” and those accomplishments that people are measured by. I have tried things, and failed…I have failed at some things spectacularly. Nevertheless, I am, at my core, a do-er. I climbed a mountain once. It was small by most standards, dwarfed by even its closest neighbors in the Adirondack Park. It is merely a hillock, a foothill, when compared to the great Rockies or the magnificent Andes. It is small, yes, and majestic on a rather minute scale…but I climbed it. On one serene August day, I cursed and fought and sweated my way up six hundred and sixty six feet of East Mountain. Now, I am not one to exert myself in such a manner on a regular basis. Gym class is a stretch for me. Unless wild and unprovoked dancing counts, I am the least active person I have the pleasure of knowing. So why did I force myself up the slopes of that mountain on that day? Why did I try, and do? That mountain is no ordinary mountain. It sits at the head of Darts Lake, the lake on which Camp Gorham is spread. The people that I love and their families flock to camp once a year, to revel in a week of absolute summer freedom. There are the twins Debbie and Judy from Brighton, fiercely competitive runners that are literally one lean muscle each. From Washington state, brother and sister Alex and Cat Motz are two parts blonde model, four parts goofball, and twenty parts athlete. Enigmatic Colt is my optimistic stringbean, topping out at six feet three inches, with a smile to match. Sarah Ferraro is fit and opinionated, a personality powerhouse. There are many more, Julie and Peter and Craig, but it was those six that most compellingly showed me that I am a do-er on the slopes of East Mountain. All week, Debbie, Judy, and Colt had been trying to persuade us to summit the mountain across the lake we had seen all day, everyday. Rather, they had attempted to sway me, a great enjoyer of the slower pace at camp. I respect and admire all of my friends, but I have come to terms with the fact that they are all certifiably insane. To force-march ones’ person up steep and bug-infested slopes is not my idea of a fun solitary outing. However, with their amazing and subtle powers of persuasion, I agreed and we were off. Let me pause to mention that none of these most excellent personages have ever had a sedentary day in their lives. They run, they ride, they swim and dance and climb with alarming alacrity. I am a firm believer in creature comforts, and so it was with a sunny countenance and powerful self-doubt that I crossed the lake to climb a barely-charted mountain. All my life I have suffered from an inferiority complex, one that is made worse by the fact that all my friends are amazing at the very things that I cannot do. It was with chagrin and a fair amount of masochism that I forced my untrained body up the sides of this small mountain. All six of my companions pushed ahead, until they were thirty or forty feet out of eyesight. I was all alone with my anger, my fears and my self-loathing. Keep going, Lindsey. Don’t let yourself lose. You will do it. You will do it, and you will not let yourself down. I barked my shins, I swore, I cut my arms and fell flat on my face. I got up. When Alex slowed his pace to “keep us together”, to babysit me, he did it with fine humor and no patronization at all. How I hated them, and myself. The going became tougher, and I caught up to the pack. I summited the mountain a scarce ten feet behind everyone else. They admired the view, goofing around and snacking on jellybeans. Colt and Alex carved S.S.A. on the rock peak, relaxing and laughing. I could not be with them. I was embarrassed by my elation. I had done something I never imagined I could do. I stood on a tree stump, away from them, watching them. I cried, and my tears of pure, unadulterated jubilation streaked the sweat and dirt from my cheeks. At that moment, I loved everything about myself, the cuts and unused muscles, my disgusting shirt and the interesting stains on my knees. I tried, and then I did. I was a do-er. In the end, I looked back on my trials, self-inflicted and physical, and I appreciated them. I did not, and have not, based my mountain experience on the sufferings I endured on the way to the top. In all of my self-doubt, it occurred to me often to just turn back, to meet them on the dining hall steps. Somehow, this never seemed as viable to me as it might have at some other time. A powerful combination of self-doubt, shame and misplaced optimism kept me going. It was the end of the trying, when it became the doing, that made it so sweet. --LHR