Saturday, August 7, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Keep On Keeping On, Champ
The Buffalo River snakes its way through the beautiful Ozark Mountains. It is my haven from the hustle and bustle of this world, and I know the trails between Steel Creek and Kyle’s Landing without a map. I’ve often led hiking trips to the Buffalo with college friends. On one such trip, an unforgettable trip, I learned a valuable lesson on leadership and encouragement.
I invited a large group to Hemmed-in Hollow (pronounced Hemmed-n-holler by true Arkansans). Hemmed-in Hollow is the tallest waterfall between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Compton Trailhead, the starting point, is located above the hollow. Hiking from here takes you straight down to the river, where you enter the horseshoe shaped hollow from its opening. Then you hike back into the hollow, which leads you to the bottom of the waterfall. One way, the trip is only two and a half miles but arduously steep.
I had also invited a young man named Curtis to come along. Curtis was a kid in my “cell group”—a youth bible study. He was failing the eighth grade at the time. He was seriously overweight and had sleep apnea (I could never sleep on church retreats; every time Curtis stopped breathing I worried he was going to die. After several seconds he would suck in a huge gasp of air. This was always a lesson in prayer). I had doubts if he knew his biological father, his mom was not able to keep a job, she normally watched television all day, and Curtis had never been on a real hiking trip. So I invited him to come along.
The day of the hike was rainy and cold. Everyone backed out except for five: two college guys (including myself), two college girls, and Curtis. We packed in my car and headed to the trailhead.
At the trailhead I got this crazy idea. I shouldn’t have entertained the idea, but instead I went with it. It’s possible to hike to the top of the waterfall by finding the source of the creek near the trailhead and following it down the mountain. I had done this before with a really athletic guy and we had no trouble, why should anybody else? We had actually made a practice out of hiking down creeks and called it “creekin’.” Arkansas creeks are unbelievable. Every one that I have ever “creeked” has been spectacular. The one leading to Hemmed-in Hollow is no exception. There are a myriad of waterfalls leading down to the big fall, some twenty plus feet high, along with huge boulders, beautiful mountain vistas, and no trail.
So I suggested, in light of the small group, that we trek to the top of the waterfall. “Y’all wanna do something intense… I mean really intense…” I stressed the word intense several times, although I did not describe what I meant by it. I should have marketed the plan more clearly. I should have said, “Y’all wanna do something intense? We’ll have to crawl on our hands and knees seventy percent of the time. Another ten percent we’ll have to rock climb: descend dried up waterfalls and maneuver over boulders. The last twenty percent we may get to walk, but it will be straight down the mountain, probably in the creek bed. If not in the creek, then we’ll have to cling onto trees to aid us in the descent. And the only way back is the way we came.”
But I didn’t say these things and everyone quickly agreed that we should go the more intense route. We would have to descend almost the same elevation in less than half the distance: without a trail, without switchbacks, and in a creek bed.
We promptly found the creek and began our descent. Seventy percent of the time we crawled on our hands and knees. Another ten percent we rock climbed: we descended the myriad waterfalls and climbed over, under, and around the multitude of boulders. The remaining twenty percent was spent walking down such a steep incline that we had to reach from tree to tree to keep from freefall. It drizzled throughout the day, but never rained. Everyone was struggling, Curtis foremost.
We made it to the top of the waterfall. We ate lunch. We said little. Everyone knew that we had to return the way we came. Curtis thought he was dead.
Like zombies we began the journey home. It had taken us two hours to hike less than a mile to the waterfall; it would take us five hours for the return. We crawled and clawed our way up the creek bed. We climbed and sometimes we were even able to walk. And we took lots of breaks.
Curtis needed the most breaks and we gladly obliged. Not far into the ascent his leg cramped for the first time. I feared he was dehydrated, so I stopped drinking water to make sure there was more for him. If I could get Curtis to the car then the rest of the team would make it. And if we made it to the car, we would make it home. My whole world became getting Curtis home.
During the descent Curtis had talked about Indians: how cool it was that they lived under these conditions, how tough they must have been, and how hiking he felt just like them and wanted to be just like them. Shortly into the ascent Curtis stopped talking about Indians. He stopped talking at all. Seemingly in mid stride he would stop for a break, or at a very steep and difficult point when a good resting place was just feet away. Because of this we took too many breaks, and Curtis was never ready to end a break. He was giving up, something we could not afford to happen. It was also something that I would do everything in my power to prevent. But surely this is a hard thing, to prevent someone from giving up.
I became a scratched CD, repeating the same lines over and again:
“Keep on keepin’ on, Big Man.”
“Keep the main thing the main thing—and the main thing right now is taking your next step to that car.”
“Keep on keepin’ on, Champ.”
These got old, so I turned them into life lessons:
“Curtis, life’s a lot like this hike, sometimes it’s tough but you’ve gotta just keep on keepin’ on.”
“There is one main thing right now, isn’t there? Life’s just like that: Jesus is the main thing. You’ve got to keep the main thing the main.”
“Life’s a marathon, it isn’t a sprint. Just like this hike. There’s no glory in going fast, just keep on keeping on.”
“Keep on keeping on, Big Man.”
I wasn’t going down easy, and neither was Curtis. Nevertheless, Curtis was going down; he was fading fast. At one point Curtis cried. Poor kid. He tried so hard not to cry, especially in front of the two college girls. But girls or no girls, he started bawling and we stopped for a break. We lost the fight, at least I thought we had.
I thought Curtis would just stop walking. He would sit there. The sun would go down and the water would run out. And there was no carrying Curtis out; we would have to airlift him. I would run back to the car and leave the others to keep him company. I would return with a helicopter.
But what happened next taught me more about leadership than a thousand books could. What happened next was done out of necessity and in no way was I acting heroically—I had no other choice—but what happened next, regardless of heroics, won the day.
“Y’all ready to get a move on?”
“No,” Curtis squeaked.
“Well, we better get a move on. Keep on keepin’ on, that will get us to the top.”
Curtis consented, stood up, and attempted to climb the mountain. The slope before us was a grade so steep it may have been vertical. The slope was not rock, but wooded mountainside—the only way up was to pull oneself from tree to tree. The slope did not afford the luxury of switchbacks, it had to be taken head on. The three others moved on. They never waited on us in the steep part of the slope, but would move to the next rest-worthy spot. Curtis trudged slowly on, from tree to tree, and I followed close behind. We came to a place where neither of us could reach the next tree, but we would have to crawl on our hands and knees a distance of about one body length—straight up.
Curtis made his first attempt and failed. He tried again and failed. Each time he made it only a foot or two and then slid back down to where he started, face in the dirt. I worried he would cry again and I worried this is where he would stop. Then he told me that he couldn’t do it.
The words stopped me cold. What would his mom say? What would my mom say? So I told Curtis to get on my back, I would carry him to the next tree. It’s the only thing I could think of. The group’s eyes dilated and Curtis’s mouth hung open. Curtis, a certified and made-fun-of fat kid, was sixty to seventy pounds heavier than me. Curtis knew there was no way I could do it. The others in the group knew I couldn’t do it, especially under the steep conditions. There was no way I was going to carry Curtis. I thought I could do it at the time because I had to, there was no other way out. Well, by helicopter maybe.
Curtis obliged and got on my back. I was lying face down in the dirt under two-hundred and thirty pounds. I started churning my legs and pulling with my arms. The others stared. Pretty soon I was clawing and kicking and pulling and pushing and anything else I could do to move one body length higher up the slope. And I started screaming, “Curtis, don’t let go! Don’t let go! We’re going to make it, don’t let go!!! We’ve just got to get to that tree, see how close it is! Don’t let go!” And I clawed and kicked and pulled and screamed and got nowhere. My face mashed into the dirt and rocks and I screamed all the more, “We’re gonna make it, Big Man, we are going to do this! Whatever it takes let’s get there! Whatever it takes! Don’t let go! Whatever it takes!”
And I clawed and I screamed and I pulled. And then I gave out.
And that’s when the miracle happened. Curtis left me face down in the dirt, scrambled up the slope, and joined the team. I came after him and we took another break. From that point on nothing could stop him from getting to the car. He still moved like a zombie, but he was a zombie with fire in his belly. We still took lots of breaks, but Curtis was no longer content with breaks. Curtis had his eyes on the prize: a 2002 Subaru Forester, silver.
Everything in Curtis’s life tells him he is a failure: he is fat, he is not smart, and he has a seriously broken family. The Hemmed-in Hollow hiking trip—his grand first hike—was no exception. Each step up that unforgiving slope was a crushing reminder of his inadequacies. As a result, Curtis was giving up—just like he had at school and in life in general. The magic in that moment was that I not only told him that he was not a failure but I also proved to him that I believed it. By putting my face in the dirt, he realized that I was crazy enough to believe he could make it back to the car—and that gave me the right to demand him to. All my hollow calls to “keep on keepin’ on” and “keep the main thing the main thing” were given authority in a single moment.
I learned three lessons that day. First, leadership must be gentle. If I had been hard on Curtis I simply would have been another finger pointing at his failures. This didn’t mean I could not yell or be passionate—indeed I did yell—but these screams were gentle in nature. Second, leadership is relentless encouragement. This encouragement must be sincere and evident. My sincerity was made evident in my attempt to carry him up the slope—he saw I would stake everything on his success. And that gave me the right to demand him to make it to the car, which is the final lesson: leadership must demand excellence.
I did not realize these things at the moment. I was just a desperate leader resorting to desperate measures. The experience has been rewarding, not only through lessons learned but also through experiencing Curtis grow up: he finished his first novel several weeks ago (he’s working on another), we have been playing baseball (he is starting to get good), and he has starting running (more like jogging). The old Curtis would have given up on these things as they used to remind him of his faults. But not anymore, not after Hemmed-in Hollow.
I invited a large group to Hemmed-in Hollow (pronounced Hemmed-n-holler by true Arkansans). Hemmed-in Hollow is the tallest waterfall between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Compton Trailhead, the starting point, is located above the hollow. Hiking from here takes you straight down to the river, where you enter the horseshoe shaped hollow from its opening. Then you hike back into the hollow, which leads you to the bottom of the waterfall. One way, the trip is only two and a half miles but arduously steep.
I had also invited a young man named Curtis to come along. Curtis was a kid in my “cell group”—a youth bible study. He was failing the eighth grade at the time. He was seriously overweight and had sleep apnea (I could never sleep on church retreats; every time Curtis stopped breathing I worried he was going to die. After several seconds he would suck in a huge gasp of air. This was always a lesson in prayer). I had doubts if he knew his biological father, his mom was not able to keep a job, she normally watched television all day, and Curtis had never been on a real hiking trip. So I invited him to come along.
The day of the hike was rainy and cold. Everyone backed out except for five: two college guys (including myself), two college girls, and Curtis. We packed in my car and headed to the trailhead.
At the trailhead I got this crazy idea. I shouldn’t have entertained the idea, but instead I went with it. It’s possible to hike to the top of the waterfall by finding the source of the creek near the trailhead and following it down the mountain. I had done this before with a really athletic guy and we had no trouble, why should anybody else? We had actually made a practice out of hiking down creeks and called it “creekin’.” Arkansas creeks are unbelievable. Every one that I have ever “creeked” has been spectacular. The one leading to Hemmed-in Hollow is no exception. There are a myriad of waterfalls leading down to the big fall, some twenty plus feet high, along with huge boulders, beautiful mountain vistas, and no trail.
So I suggested, in light of the small group, that we trek to the top of the waterfall. “Y’all wanna do something intense… I mean really intense…” I stressed the word intense several times, although I did not describe what I meant by it. I should have marketed the plan more clearly. I should have said, “Y’all wanna do something intense? We’ll have to crawl on our hands and knees seventy percent of the time. Another ten percent we’ll have to rock climb: descend dried up waterfalls and maneuver over boulders. The last twenty percent we may get to walk, but it will be straight down the mountain, probably in the creek bed. If not in the creek, then we’ll have to cling onto trees to aid us in the descent. And the only way back is the way we came.”
But I didn’t say these things and everyone quickly agreed that we should go the more intense route. We would have to descend almost the same elevation in less than half the distance: without a trail, without switchbacks, and in a creek bed.
We promptly found the creek and began our descent. Seventy percent of the time we crawled on our hands and knees. Another ten percent we rock climbed: we descended the myriad waterfalls and climbed over, under, and around the multitude of boulders. The remaining twenty percent was spent walking down such a steep incline that we had to reach from tree to tree to keep from freefall. It drizzled throughout the day, but never rained. Everyone was struggling, Curtis foremost.
We made it to the top of the waterfall. We ate lunch. We said little. Everyone knew that we had to return the way we came. Curtis thought he was dead.
Like zombies we began the journey home. It had taken us two hours to hike less than a mile to the waterfall; it would take us five hours for the return. We crawled and clawed our way up the creek bed. We climbed and sometimes we were even able to walk. And we took lots of breaks.
Curtis needed the most breaks and we gladly obliged. Not far into the ascent his leg cramped for the first time. I feared he was dehydrated, so I stopped drinking water to make sure there was more for him. If I could get Curtis to the car then the rest of the team would make it. And if we made it to the car, we would make it home. My whole world became getting Curtis home.
During the descent Curtis had talked about Indians: how cool it was that they lived under these conditions, how tough they must have been, and how hiking he felt just like them and wanted to be just like them. Shortly into the ascent Curtis stopped talking about Indians. He stopped talking at all. Seemingly in mid stride he would stop for a break, or at a very steep and difficult point when a good resting place was just feet away. Because of this we took too many breaks, and Curtis was never ready to end a break. He was giving up, something we could not afford to happen. It was also something that I would do everything in my power to prevent. But surely this is a hard thing, to prevent someone from giving up.
I became a scratched CD, repeating the same lines over and again:
“Keep on keepin’ on, Big Man.”
“Keep the main thing the main thing—and the main thing right now is taking your next step to that car.”
“Keep on keepin’ on, Champ.”
These got old, so I turned them into life lessons:
“Curtis, life’s a lot like this hike, sometimes it’s tough but you’ve gotta just keep on keepin’ on.”
“There is one main thing right now, isn’t there? Life’s just like that: Jesus is the main thing. You’ve got to keep the main thing the main.”
“Life’s a marathon, it isn’t a sprint. Just like this hike. There’s no glory in going fast, just keep on keeping on.”
“Keep on keeping on, Big Man.”
I wasn’t going down easy, and neither was Curtis. Nevertheless, Curtis was going down; he was fading fast. At one point Curtis cried. Poor kid. He tried so hard not to cry, especially in front of the two college girls. But girls or no girls, he started bawling and we stopped for a break. We lost the fight, at least I thought we had.
I thought Curtis would just stop walking. He would sit there. The sun would go down and the water would run out. And there was no carrying Curtis out; we would have to airlift him. I would run back to the car and leave the others to keep him company. I would return with a helicopter.
But what happened next taught me more about leadership than a thousand books could. What happened next was done out of necessity and in no way was I acting heroically—I had no other choice—but what happened next, regardless of heroics, won the day.
“Y’all ready to get a move on?”
“No,” Curtis squeaked.
“Well, we better get a move on. Keep on keepin’ on, that will get us to the top.”
Curtis consented, stood up, and attempted to climb the mountain. The slope before us was a grade so steep it may have been vertical. The slope was not rock, but wooded mountainside—the only way up was to pull oneself from tree to tree. The slope did not afford the luxury of switchbacks, it had to be taken head on. The three others moved on. They never waited on us in the steep part of the slope, but would move to the next rest-worthy spot. Curtis trudged slowly on, from tree to tree, and I followed close behind. We came to a place where neither of us could reach the next tree, but we would have to crawl on our hands and knees a distance of about one body length—straight up.
Curtis made his first attempt and failed. He tried again and failed. Each time he made it only a foot or two and then slid back down to where he started, face in the dirt. I worried he would cry again and I worried this is where he would stop. Then he told me that he couldn’t do it.
The words stopped me cold. What would his mom say? What would my mom say? So I told Curtis to get on my back, I would carry him to the next tree. It’s the only thing I could think of. The group’s eyes dilated and Curtis’s mouth hung open. Curtis, a certified and made-fun-of fat kid, was sixty to seventy pounds heavier than me. Curtis knew there was no way I could do it. The others in the group knew I couldn’t do it, especially under the steep conditions. There was no way I was going to carry Curtis. I thought I could do it at the time because I had to, there was no other way out. Well, by helicopter maybe.
Curtis obliged and got on my back. I was lying face down in the dirt under two-hundred and thirty pounds. I started churning my legs and pulling with my arms. The others stared. Pretty soon I was clawing and kicking and pulling and pushing and anything else I could do to move one body length higher up the slope. And I started screaming, “Curtis, don’t let go! Don’t let go! We’re going to make it, don’t let go!!! We’ve just got to get to that tree, see how close it is! Don’t let go!” And I clawed and kicked and pulled and screamed and got nowhere. My face mashed into the dirt and rocks and I screamed all the more, “We’re gonna make it, Big Man, we are going to do this! Whatever it takes let’s get there! Whatever it takes! Don’t let go! Whatever it takes!”
And I clawed and I screamed and I pulled. And then I gave out.
And that’s when the miracle happened. Curtis left me face down in the dirt, scrambled up the slope, and joined the team. I came after him and we took another break. From that point on nothing could stop him from getting to the car. He still moved like a zombie, but he was a zombie with fire in his belly. We still took lots of breaks, but Curtis was no longer content with breaks. Curtis had his eyes on the prize: a 2002 Subaru Forester, silver.
Everything in Curtis’s life tells him he is a failure: he is fat, he is not smart, and he has a seriously broken family. The Hemmed-in Hollow hiking trip—his grand first hike—was no exception. Each step up that unforgiving slope was a crushing reminder of his inadequacies. As a result, Curtis was giving up—just like he had at school and in life in general. The magic in that moment was that I not only told him that he was not a failure but I also proved to him that I believed it. By putting my face in the dirt, he realized that I was crazy enough to believe he could make it back to the car—and that gave me the right to demand him to. All my hollow calls to “keep on keepin’ on” and “keep the main thing the main thing” were given authority in a single moment.
I learned three lessons that day. First, leadership must be gentle. If I had been hard on Curtis I simply would have been another finger pointing at his failures. This didn’t mean I could not yell or be passionate—indeed I did yell—but these screams were gentle in nature. Second, leadership is relentless encouragement. This encouragement must be sincere and evident. My sincerity was made evident in my attempt to carry him up the slope—he saw I would stake everything on his success. And that gave me the right to demand him to make it to the car, which is the final lesson: leadership must demand excellence.
I did not realize these things at the moment. I was just a desperate leader resorting to desperate measures. The experience has been rewarding, not only through lessons learned but also through experiencing Curtis grow up: he finished his first novel several weeks ago (he’s working on another), we have been playing baseball (he is starting to get good), and he has starting running (more like jogging). The old Curtis would have given up on these things as they used to remind him of his faults. But not anymore, not after Hemmed-in Hollow.
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