We’ve all done it: Making the trip multiple times to the mailbox in a single day, hoping that IT has finally arrived. Whatever IT is, the hope that maybe this time pulls with a force stronger than the Columbia River’s most powerful hydroelectric turbine.
Some of my “its” have included a new passport, a graduate school acceptance letter and a king-sized tax return, but they paled in comparison to this one. A reluctant writer, my Evergreen colleagues pestered me to write a Mount Rainier natural history until I succumbed to their good-natured haranguing. Actually, I agreed to a 30-day trial period, getting up an hour early each day to write, to see if I could do the job. I was all in at month’s end, but completely unaware of what I’d gotten myself into.
Nine years and eight rejections later (a story for another time), my thrice-daily jaunts to the mailbox were wishful thinking for the publishing agreement from Washington State University Press. They wanted to publish Tahoma: The Place and Its People!
One of my mentors and accomplished outdoor writer John Miles used a mountain climbing metaphor when I consulted with him early in the process. “I know it sounds trite,” he said, “but it’s true. You’ve got to approach it like a climb and take it one step at a time.” “Great,” I thought, “I’m not on the mountain yet. I’m not even at the trailhead. I’m at home studying maps, planning the route and becoming a gym rat. How long is this going to take?”
When the Press asked for the full manuscript in January 2018, it was a major breakthrough. What I didn’t realize is that the process can move as slowly as a climb hampered by uncooperative weather. For almost a year, I felt like I was cramped into a stinky little tent just a few hundred feet below the summit, waiting for the weather to clear. Littered with dirty socks, protein bar wrappers and urine-filled Nalgene water bottles, I waited. I sang Tom Petty’s “The Waiting” a thousand times. One day, convinced that the whole thing was a mirage, rays of sunlight angled through my tent door. I sensed something special was about to break loose. Without warning, the radio crackled from below. “Weather’s clearing,” said the voice. “No wind. Perfect for a summit attempt. Tonight you rise.” I emptied my pee bottles, loaded my pack, and made ready for the final ascent.
This time at the mailbox, here is the summit: an eight-and-a-half by eleven envelope with a Pullman, Washington return address. Jubilation. Tears of Gratitude. Happy Dance with Valerie.
Although signing the contract represents my summit, any experienced climber worth their crampons and harness acknowledges that it’s only partway. Most accidents occur on the descent. There’s one heck of a long pull until you’re back safely in your own bed. I’ve got a long way to go. I read somewhere that there are thirty-eight steps from the publisher’s acceptance of a manuscript until the book appears in print. It doesn’t matter. I melted some snow and scrounged some food scraps. I’ve got my sunscreen and glacier goggles. I’m ready to shoulder that pack. I’m going for it.