The Essence of a Thing
“The essence of a thing”. I’ve recently heard this in a few settings from very different people. Perhaps this is one of those “words of the year” things, or a “pay attention to this” moment that God is inviting me into. Regardless, essence came up twice on a recent trip; once specifically related to the experience.
Five friends and I traversed the Teton Crest Trail as our culminating event of the 2026 Run Ranger Run season. The TCT is 42 miles with 9,800 ft. of vertical ascent through some of the most stunning (and punishing) terrain in America. We did it in two days. It was epic, painful, and meaningful. “Most of life’s best things are,” my friend Mike replied when I gave him my post-trip report.
Only if you get to the essence of a thing.
Only if you ask, “why?” really.
“Why do we do things like this?”
I asked my teammates this question two-thirds of the way into day one (when I was at my lowest) and two miles from the end of day two (when a teammate was at his). Everyone hits a low point during these events. And we know it. So, why do we sign on for these sufferfests?
We all had our reasons. All of them are meaningful. None of them were related to the sheer beauty of our National Parks.
Of course, the mountains, glaciers, fall leaves, and alpine streams inspire awe, but you can see that from your car window or a day hike from a comfy, clean hotel room. There’s something deeper in the backwoods. An invitation where the awe and the pain extend, which exposes the very essence of the journey itself.
Truth is, I feel most like myself on these brutal adventures.
It’s a weird thing to say, and it’s what I said on day one. And while it relates to my life as a Ranger, I think it’s more in line with what Boyd Varty calls an “undiagnosed homesickness for the land.” That sense of feeling at home in the wild. In my own words, efforting in the uninterrupted presence of our Creator amid the beauty of His creation.
Also, truth is, that’s the tip of the iceberg. One that required deeper reflection on day two.
The essence of feeling like myself is using struggle and awe to scrape away the crap that keeps me from feeling.
I'm an emotional guy, yet I struggle to access my emotions; my brother-in-law (like his sister, Kelly, my wife) doesn’t. I admire them both for this. Tears rarely come for me. I wish it wasn’t that way, but it is. It’s hard to pinpoint any one moment when the tears stopped; perhaps it was the day my dad took everything of value and left our family behind. I remember a numbness that afternoon, standing on the porch watching him load a box truck, before getting nose to nose with me to threaten my mother. I was eleven. And that was a long time ago.
I don’t think about that much anymore. He died alone, and my family and I live on together: mother, brother, sister, significant others, and all the great kids that come along with the deal. Dad got a box truck of tools and car parts. Mom got a lifetime of memories.
There was no time for tears in the Army, though I shed them a time or two. To that effect, I don’t think much about those moments of pain and suffering in Ranger School, or South Rainier, or even Afghanistan anymore either.
But thinking about those moments or even feeling the lingering physical effects from them is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s the echoes of those moments that live somewhere deep inside the soul. Somewhere hard to access without equal pain and suffering. Something impossible to access with those who loved you.
“I do this because it’s a small thing compared to the suffering you guys did as Rangers in the war,” my sister-in-law Amy said, “and it helps Rangers like you.”
I was stunned by the sentiment. It was somehow hard to hear.
Tony continued, “And I watched how much you all struggled to try to come home afterward.”
He went on sharing some really sweet and personal things that I think I’ll just keep between us, but it moved me to that all-too-rare emotional release. I stopped, overcome by emotion, 0.3 miles from the trail exit, to turn around and wrap him in a big hug. We stayed there a moment and had a moment. It was special.
We had touched the essence of the whole thing.
All those years. All those miles. All that pain and suffering affected me just like anyone else. I just wasn’t allowed to experience it then. More was required of me at the time.
But here, with a wife and family who love me, at home in America on the Teton Crest Trail after 42 miles, 9800 ft. of vert, and 36 hours with a 35 lb. pack, I was. All those ingredients and the glory of creation ripped the walls down to get to the very essence of the thing.
And at its core, that essence is deeper than feeling like myself. It’s feeling at all.
It’s connecting to God, to others, and to God’s creation.
It’s getting out of my head and getting into the moment.
Perhaps someday it won’t require smashing my face against the rocks of suffering, but for now, it does. And that’s ok. Because as long as I keep entering that trail in earnest, I emerge reclaiming another part of the real me, lost somewhere along the way, but found in the peaks and valleys of our beautiful country. While living out the days I’ve been given alongside the ones I love.