Chapter 1: Embracing the Challenge

What drives individuals to embrace daunting physical trials when it's not necessary? One potential explanation lies in the transformative nature of discomfort.

Photo by Brian Erickson on Unsplash

As I prepare to embark on this daunting journey, I feel a wave of apprehension. If I pause to contemplate what I’m about to undertake, I risk abandoning the endeavor altogether. So, without delay, I activate my timer and begin my run. My path takes me along the Kim Williams Trail, a rocky, challenging route that follows the old rail line through Hellgate Canyon, alongside the Clark Fork River.

Ahead lies a daunting task: a 13.1-mile run/hike with a staggering elevation gain of 3,416 feet, starting from Hellgate Canyon and culminating at the summit of Mount Sentinel, then traversing the ridge to Pattee Canyon before returning.

My Own Personal Comfort Crisis

What compels me to take on this challenge? Perhaps it’s a quest to test my limits, to escape the confines of my comfort zone, and to reconnect with a part of myself that once found value in such struggles. I can’t quite recall what that was, but I do recognize that my current routine isn’t serving me well.

A few weeks earlier, I found myself in a coffee shop, laptop open and cursor blinking on a blank screen. I aimed to draft a bucket list of experiences for my final summer in Missoula before embarking on a year-long journey around the globe, yet I drew a blank.

From my perch at the window, I had a clear view of the mountains that once mesmerized me. During late spring and summer, the lush mountainsides transform into a vibrant green, a rare subalpine grassland that captivates anyone who gazes upon it.

But today, that enchantment feels distant. I reflect, “I detest these mountains. I’m tired of them.” This feeling of aversion extends beyond the mountains; it encompasses everything around me. My cursor blinks in agreement, as I struggle to recall anything I wish to do before I leave. All I desire is an escape.

This discontent has plagued me for weeks. My productivity has dwindled, and my mornings are filled with half-hearted attempts at writing, social media scrolling, binge-watching, and indulging in chocolate. I anxiously await the sunset, so I can retreat to bed and wait for sleep to rescue me from this ennui.

On one particularly unproductive day, I picked up a new book — The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter. I finished it in a single sitting, recognizing a truth I had been avoiding: I am too comfortable, and this comfort is breeding boredom. I lack inspiration because I haven’t engaged in anything worthwhile.

On one hand, I feel relieved to have identified the problem; on the other, I dread the solution.

The Search for Discomfort

In The Comfort Crisis, Easter interviews Dr. Marcus Elliott, a Harvard-trained physical therapist working with elite athletes. However, their discussion isn’t centered on physical mechanics but rather on a concept called Misogi.

Misogi, a Japanese term meaning “Ritual Purification,” traditionally involves sitting beneath an icy waterfall for meditation. In the West, this term has been reinterpreted to describe self-imposed extreme physical challenges. Jesse Itzler, the billionaire founder of NetJets, popularized this notion, and it’s been echoed by countless fitness enthusiasts. The core principle behind modern Misogi resonates with many today, as evidenced by the surge in popularity of events like Spartan Races and fitness regimes like CrossFit.

In essence, the principle is straightforward: We are living in the most comfortable era in human history. With widespread war, famine, and violence in decline, material wealth is more accessible than ever. However, despite this comfort, a paradox emerges: well-being does not necessarily follow material abundance. Viktor Frankl’s term, the “Existential Vacuum,” encapsulates the modern dilemma where material wealth exists, yet meaning often eludes us. The rise in mental health issues such as obesity, addiction, and depression underscores this disconnect.

The antidote to this “Comfort Crisis” lies in willingly embracing hardship. Misogi encourages individuals to create physical challenges that push them beyond their comfort zones, offering a shift in perspective and a sense of purpose. As our environment no longer provides these challenges, we must seek them out ourselves.

The Difficulty of Choosing Suffering

Humans seem inherently inclined to seek comfort, a trait that has evolved for survival. The desire for pleasure and ease has enabled our ancestors to thrive, passing their genes onto future generations.

However, in today’s world, comfort is ubiquitous. We’ve engineered our environment to maximize ease, from climate control to readily available high-calorie foods, and devices that provide instant gratification. For most of us, the drive to endure discomfort has all but disappeared, and it appears counterintuitive to seek it out.

That’s why I push myself to avoid dwelling on the challenge ahead. If I pause to think, I’ll realize I don’t have to go through with this. I’m not hunting for food or fleeing a predator; there’s no reward awaiting me at the finish line, no medal or t-shirt. My comfortable bed awaits at home, and no one would blame me for turning back.

Planning for Misogi

The first couple of miles along the Kim Williams Trail are grueling. My pace lingers around 9:40 per mile — not particularly fast, but that’s not what troubles me; it’s my racing thoughts.

The map indicated this section to be about 1.8 miles, just enough to round the total to 10. I haven’t run more than 5 miles since injuring my knee two summers ago, and certainly not with this level of elevation and rough terrain. I assume that a surge of adrenaline and a bit of determination will propel me through, but upon reaching the second leg, I discover I’ve overshot — it’s actually 2.3 miles, not 1.8.

If this discrepancy holds true for the entire trek, I’ll find myself running a half marathon — a feat I’ve accomplished only once before on flat ground after a season of training. The very thought sends a jolt of fear through me.

Despite the discomfort, I realize this fear is a positive sign. In The Comfort Crisis, Easter outlines some guidelines for planning a Misogi:

1. Make it extremely challenging.
2. Ensure you survive.

Your chance of failure should hover around 50%. I’m confident I won’t die, but I constantly assess how close I am to that threshold. Some additional criteria I set could tilt the scales too far towards failure: no food, no water, no sunscreen, no music, no maps, and a time limit of under four hours, all completed on my own power.

Preparing for this journey feels nonsensical. I sat down to strategize on a Saturday morning, researching trail systems and estimating distances, but the thought of scouting the trail to reduce risk didn’t sit right either. If I trained to increase my capacity, I’d simply have to raise the stakes. Plus, the uncertainty is what makes it exhilarating, so I decide to tackle the challenge the very next day.

Assessing and Mitigating Risks

The night before, sleep eludes me as I mentally rehearse all the potential disasters that could unfold.

Mechanical injury looms large — a broken ankle or a flare-up in my knee could leave me stranded in a remote area. Surprisingly, the thought of not finishing terrifies me even more.

Getting lost is another significant concern. Many trails in this region are unmarked, and while navigation is relatively straightforward (downward leads to civilization), I worry about taking a wrong turn that could either cut my challenge short or prolong it unnecessarily.

Dehydration and heat exhaustion rank third on my list. I’m well-hydrated from the previous day, but I’m carrying no water and will be on a ridge without any sources. If I do succumb to heat stroke, I might be able to flag down a fellow runner for assistance.

An animal encounter, while unlikely, is still a possibility. Though it’s too close to urban areas for wolves or bears, the thought of a mountain lion stalking nearby sends chills down my spine.

Perhaps the most significant risk is my own stubbornness. I know that even if I should abandon the endeavor, I probably won’t, and if I do violate Rule 2, it’s likely my own doing.

Lessons Learned Beyond Discomfort

The second leg of the journey is intended to be the most challenging: three-quarters of a mile with 11 switchbacks and a steep ascent of 620 feet to the base of a massive concrete ‘M,’ which stands 100 feet wide and 125 feet tall against the mountainside.

As I progress, doubt creeps in. I frequently hike up the ‘M’ for exercise, but the trail beyond is far more demanding. I find myself gasping for breath after just a few steps. The incline is so steep that it almost feels logical to lean forward and use my hands for support. I worry I won’t have the strength to complete the ridge run, let alone make it back down. My legs feel heavy, like they’re filled with motor oil.

Then, it takes a turn for the worse.

After catching my breath and taking in the view from the summit, I begin jogging along the Pengelly Ridge trail. Suddenly, reality hits — I’ve taken the wrong trail. It leads straight down into Crazy Canyon. If I descend and have to hike back up, I know I’m finished. Reluctantly, I backtrack and opt for a narrow path that appears to follow the ridge line, but it’s not even a proper trail — it’s a game trail, guiding me back down the mountain.

Reaching the turnaround point, I face a critical decision: do I retrace my steps on the fire road as planned, or venture up the ridge from this side? I can't bear the thought of not completing the ridge, so I choose the latter, knowing I’d regret it if I didn’t.

I’m already exceeding my planned mileage. At the turnaround, I’ve logged 7 miles instead of the anticipated 5. If I continue at this rate, the total could balloon to 12 or 15 miles. As I ascend toward the ridge, I’m pleasantly surprised by how my legs feel. That is until I crest the first knoll and see a looming mountain ahead, with tiny figures scaling its peak. That's my destination.

For a moment, I contemplate retreating. It feels insurmountable, but I remind myself to focus on each step. I notice a fresh pile of cat scat, indicating a large predator was nearby, but I’m too exhausted to care.

As I keep my gaze downward, I find myself nearing the top of the ridge sooner than expected. Just one more saddle to cross, and I’ll be back at the summit of Sentinel.

Reaching the summit, I hit the 10-mile mark. I’m approximately three hours and twenty minutes into the challenge. I spot a trail that will connect back into Hellgate Canyon, but it’s no less punishing than the initial route.

I half-run, half-limp down, calculating my pace. To finish in under four hours, I need to maintain a pace better than 10 minutes per mile. My knee, which flared up during the ascent, is now screaming in agony. I realize that if I use my left leg as a crutch and move gingerly, I can manage it. But my hips and feet are protesting loudly as well.

Ultimately, I know I’ll emerge onto the Kim Williams Trail somewhere in Hellgate Canyon, but I’m uncertain where. If I reach the 3.5-mile marker, I’m in good shape; if it’s the 3.0-mile mark, I’ll have to sprint. The thought of the latter fills me with dread.

Finally, I arrive at the last stretch of the trail. At last, I’m on level ground and must quicken my pace. I push to run until I spot a mile marker, anxious to gauge my speed. I maintain a pace around nine minutes per mile for a few minutes, until the wooden post comes into view. The dread sinks in as I realize it’s the 3.0-mile mark.

I’ve lost my edge.

I’ll need to keep this pace up for another mile. Had it been the 3.5-mile marker, I could have coasted back. Instead, I find myself at 3.0 miles, and my time is exactly 3 hours and 51 minutes. My mind starts to falter; I slow to a walk, voicing my frustration.

But after a few steps, an intriguing realization hits me: my body isn’t as depleted as I thought. Yes, I’m sore all over, but my heart rate remains steady. My legs, though weary, are capable of a 10-minute pace. Why not push for a 9-minute pace? I recognize that it isn’t my body holding me back; it’s my mind, fixated on the pain I might feel later.

With renewed determination, I break into a run.

The elusive 4.0-mile marker seems to hide around each bend. I focus on my stride, ensuring proper form, pulling my core tight. Finally, the marker appears, and I discover I have more energy left than I did at the 3.0-mile mark.

As I cross it, I glance at my timer — 3 hours, 59 minutes, and 51 seconds. I’ve completed 13 miles, surpassing my original distance, and gained and lost over 2,000 feet in elevation. I even managed to run my 13th mile faster than my first, finishing with just nine seconds to spare. The emotional release I experience is indescribable.

Afterward, I return to my car, where I’ve stashed a water bottle filled with a mix of Pedialyte and water. I sip it as I stroll to the river, shedding my shirt, hat, glasses, and shoes. I walk into the water up to my knees and take a seat.

Surprisingly, I feel a sense of tranquility.

The True Gift of Suffering

The following evening, I attended a show with friends and recounted my journey, tracing an imaginary line along the path I had taken up the mountain. One friend asked why I willingly subjected myself to such suffering. I found myself at a loss for words.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I admitted. “Perhaps it’s not about the outcomes, but the act itself. Struggle and hardship may not just serve as a means to an end but can be valuable experiences in their own right.”

Initially, I titled this piece “Something, Something Suffering,” as I hadn’t yet grasped its essence. However, during a sleepless night, a clearer understanding emerged.

The true gift of suffering, including discomfort and pain, is its ability to ground us in the present moment. It connects us to our bodies. The day leading up to this experience was consumed with future anxieties. Even during the initial and final miles, my thoughts revolved around finishing on time.

Yet, at certain intervals along the route, the noise subsided, and I simply existed. My focus sharpened on the next step, allowing me to appreciate every wildflower, rock, and the sensations within my body. I became acutely aware of my physical state, and despite the discomfort, I felt detached, like an observer of my own journey.

Upon reflection, this sensation mirrors the states achieved through meditation, with the key distinction being my movement throughout the process. Perhaps suffering serves as a pathway to presence, akin to stillness, but with the added benefits of breathtaking views and the satisfaction derived from soaking my weary body in an icy river while sipping Pedialyte.

Chapter 2: Exploring the Gift of Presence

The first video, What If Suffering Is a Gift?, delves into the notion that suffering may not be an obstacle but rather a catalyst for personal growth and understanding. It illustrates how embracing challenges can lead to profound insights and deeper connections with oneself.

The second video, The Gift of the Present Moment, invites viewers to reflect on the importance of being present in our lives. It emphasizes how mindfulness can transform our perception of discomfort and suffering into opportunities for awareness and growth.