My good friend and mountain-guru John Jones once told me, It’s not a real hike until there’s blood on your socks. But in this case an onslaught of rain and mud would have to do. 

I received a text the night before with only a time and location. No mention of an intended route or mileage, nor of forecasted conditions. Not even a customary “Hiya.” It felt very much like an operation assignment from the Mission Impossible franchise. Only in this case it was not the message that would self-destruct, but me.

We met at the Maple Springs Trailhead, a scenic little grotto tucked in the Santa Ana Mountains, and proceeded start our day with a frigid water crossing. We tromped through it barefoot and breathless and were just congratulating ourselves on having the foresight to keep our shoes dry when the clouds descended, the fine mist intensified to rain, and our preciously guarded shoes—along with every other article of clothing—became instantaneously saturated. 

My friend found this a suitable moment to reveal the day’s itinerary: three peaks spanning twenty-two miles with over six-thousand feet of gain. I briefly considered returning to the creek to drown him, but thought it better to conserve my energy.

For the next eight and a half hours the weather persisted, presenting a colorful mix of falling rain, sideways rain, rain that splattered up from grooves of mud, and rain that seemed to spontaneously generate beneath our so-called waterproof layers. Breaks of more than several minutes were out of the question; a brisk pace was now required not only to complete our route in daylight but to keep ourselves from freezing. 

Visibility was that of a desktop snowglobe as we arrived at Pleasant Peak and Bedford Peak, and by the time we approached our final summit, the honeymoon was over. The singing and laughing and good-natured banter had long since dwindled. We walked alone, each shrouded in our own private cocoon of misery. 

That’s not to say we were in any way unhappy. There is a peculiar joy to trudging endlessly through demoralizing weather, caked in mud and steaming sweat in a strange halo of effort. 

We reached Bald Peak in silence. The signpost lay shattered and the register was sodden. The peak, I’m sure, typically offers sweeping views of the hills that rumple greenly to all directions. But not that afternoon. Then again, sometimes the views are internal. And sometimes there simply are none. 

We did, however, get a sliver of blue during our descent back to the trailhead. And we stood in worship of it, gawping at its clarity and color. The long showers at home were splendid, as were the hot meals and the mattress. And one by one we realized it was a rare gift from the mountains—that discomfort scours the jaded soul to carve out a place for gratitude.