The morning’s cool, but I’m warm in the passenger seat of our car with Will’s sweater for a pillow. The 7:00 a.m. sky is still hazy with dawn, its pale pinks and blues lingering on as the day settles into itself. We plan on summiting Mont-Mégantic, one of the many mountains on the list of Quebec’s above 1000 metres peaks. And though I had enthusiastically slipped into my new pair of trail pants this morning, a sort of trepidation worked its way through my gut.
My last hike had been difficult. Mont-Orford greeted my best friend Noam and I with a waterfall and vertical wall within the first kilometre of climbing the trail, and persisted on as such. When the boulders and rocky steps came to an end, and the tree coverage opened up, we thought we had made it to the top. We learnt, as the trail converged with the main downhill ski trail, we had a long ways to go.
That night, I returned home dehydrated, suffering from heatstroke, and with bruised toenails from the constant pressure of my toes slamming down to the toe of my boots during our descent. I owe it to Noam for getting me up there. Without her insisting on pushing me up the rest of the way, I might still be dragging my feet up the mountain. And though today forecasted for sweaters and clouds, with no chance of heatstroke, a part of me hoped this climb wouldn’t be as intense as the last.
Over the last several months—specifically since Will and I started taking our outdoor adventures seriously,—a slow forming realisation took form within me. An inner discovery piecing itself together to form an internal oh moment.
My childhood was overshadowed by an inability to understand the process and hype around choosing and making someone one’s hero. I understood a heroes purpose and why people had them, but I could never grasp how one decided Michael Jackson was their hero. Was it as simple as saying “I admire what X does and this is why X is my hero”? Or is there more to the process of claiming an individual to look up to?
Maybe I never understood, because I never had an idol or a hero. There were authors and musicians whose work I enjoyed, and actors who frequently embodied the characters I loved and thought inspiring. But none qualified for the role of hero in my life. Not once have I had a moment and thought, “If I were X, what would I do?”.
It made school projects on this topic particularly difficult for me. For the most part I would manage to avoid the topic, pick another from the list to write about or present. Other times, there were no options. I’d sit and listen as my peers went on about their heroes, and how they changed their lives. Student after student heading up to the front of class, and with the utmost passion, introduce the class to their idols. Relaying their grandmother’s story of struggle in the Philippines and how she uprooted her family to Canada to provide a better life for them. Or how they wished they had the strength and optimism of their father, who, though sick with cancer, ran marathons and brought cheer to their family.
Every student with a sincere and heartfelt presentation. And though I appreciated learning more about my peers and the sensitive parts of their lives they would divulge, a part of me always wondered, “What’s wrong with me?”. I struggled. Spent hours and years trying to figure out if there was someone I looked to when things got rough. My presentations never got emotional, nor were they passionate. Instead, they started with a disclaimer.
“I do not have a hero.”
Leaning against the railing of a cliffside platform at the top of Mont-Mégantic, with Will at my side snapping pictures of the view, I feel accomplished. My legs are weak, exhausted from the steady hike up, and relieved to have the time to recuperate. We’ll be up and moving in a short while, the descent another feat to tackle in our day, but for now, I revel in the soreness in my muscles with mountain winds kissing my warm skin.
“You look like Lara Croft in those pants.”
I knew I didn’t, and I stood no chance in comparison with a fictional badass, but Will’s words did resonate. With every new mountain we summited, with hikes leading to chin-deep fresh water caves and new encounters, I felt adventurous and heroic. Not that I was doing anything hero-worthy, or saving lives. I was simply facing myself.
And I looked forward to it. Each new hike allowing me to push myself physically and mentally, as if the trail we chose for the day was formed by the obstacles in my life. I clambered over boulders of anxiety, used the trunks of inferiority and imposter syndrome to pull myself up and find my place. Waded through my fear of change and ducked into the cold depths of self-sabotage and fear to come out the other side elated.
The more I explored, the more I realised I was allowing myself to become myself, and there was nothing wrong with me for not having a hero. It just took me a long time to figure out I wanted to be my own hero.
Note from the author:
Special thanks to William Botka at William B Photography for the beautiful pictures. If you’re interested in seeing more of his work, please visit his portfolio here or follow his instagram @williambphotographymtl.
