A Belated Apology to Sister Swartz

It recently occurred to me that the phrase high adventure was not merely decorative language adults used to make a youth trip sound impressive. Apparently, we were expected to participate in the adventure—and, when possible, at a high elevation.

I was a Beehive at the time, so I do not want to be overly critical of my thirteen-year-old brain. It was still developing. It had only recently mastered remembering a locker combination and was not prepared to evaluate the structural integrity of an Oklahoma hillside.

But looking back, I now realize that when our group went to Turner Falls, I did not participate in the particularly high portion of the high adventure.

Everyone else went on the hike. I stayed behind with Sister Swartz.

I think I owe her a belated thank-you, and possibly an apology, for having to remain with me while everyone else marched into nature and collected whatever personal growth was apparently waiting at the top.

The trail was simply too steep.

I have always had a genuine fear of steep places, especially when the ground is not paved. Concrete at least gives the impression that an engineer has been involved. Loose dirt and rocks suggest that nature began the project and then wandered away before anyone could inspect it.

Even tiny rocks make me nervous. Logically, I understand that a small rock is not especially threatening. But put several thousand of them on an incline that does not look fit for human use, and suddenly they become a coordinated landslide with plans for my ankles.

My standard has always been simple: if I look at a slope and think, No human being should be expected to travel at that angle, I am not going up it. Mountain goats may proceed. They have the proper equipment and fewer concerns about dignity.

So Sister Swartz stayed behind with me while everyone else went hiking.

At the time, I probably assumed this was simply part of her calling. Years later, I realize she had traveled to Turner Falls for a high-adventure trip and ended up supervising one frightened Beehive at the bottom of a hill. That is less “high adventure” and more “unexpectedly assigned to the visitor center.”

I do want Sister Swartz to know that I eventually faced this fear.

Years later, Celeste and I went through a cave tunnel in Oregon that led to another shoreline. The cave had almost no light, and the footing consisted of loose rocks that shifted beneath my feet as though the ground had declined to make any long-term commitments.

I could not see how far the tunnel went. I could not clearly see the exit. I did not know how much unstable ground remained between me and daylight.

Naturally, I considered turning around.

I considered it multiple times.

The problem was that Celeste was already ahead of me and was not turning around to conduct regular wellness checks. Strangers were coming through behind me, which meant I could not simply stop in the middle of the cave and announce that everyone needed to reverse direction because I had reached my emotional limit with geology.

So I kept going.

Not because I suddenly became fearless. Not because the rocks became more stable. Not because Celeste looked back, extended a hand, and delivered an inspiring speech.

I kept going because I had to reach the end.

There were strangers behind me, Celeste somewhere ahead of me, and no socially acceptable way to sit down in a dark cave and wait for Oregon to install pavement.

Somewhere in that tunnel, I gained confidence because I had no other choice. Every step proved that I could take one more step, even while my brain was presenting several persuasive arguments for immediate evacuation.

I made it all the way through.

Then, somehow, I came back through the same cave.

That second trip may have been courage. It may also have been the unfortunate discovery that our belongings and transportation were still on the original side. Either way, I did it.

So, Sister Swartz, I eventually completed my high adventure. It just took several years, a dark Oregon cave, unstable footing, a line of strangers applying silent social pressure, and a sister who apparently assumed I would either keep up or establish a new life underground.

And while I was taking the long route toward personal growth, Sister Swartz went on to enjoy many more high adventures of her own at Walt Disney World with Minnie Mouse.

Frankly, she chose the better program.

Disney has paved walkways, carefully placed railings, cheerful lighting, and employees specifically trained to notice when someone has stopped moving. And when the ground suddenly shifts beneath your feet, it is not because the trail is collapsing.

It is because you paid for the ride.

So I am sorry I kept you from the Turner Falls hike, Sister Swartz. But I hope Minnie Mouse has since provided you with many years of better-organized high adventure—complete with handrails, safety inspections, and a gift shop conveniently located at the exit.