My Daddy’s Determination

Today I’m thinking of my daddy and the sheer determination that characterized so much of his life. As a little girl, I thought him larger than life, up to any challenge.

But I will never forget hearing of the adventure he almost didn’t survive.

It was 1933, just a year after he went to the Olympics as an alternate for the wrestling team, and Daddy was ready for a new venture. He decided he would climb Pike’s Peak and invited a bunch of buddies to join him. They took off in his old Dodge truck, driving from Maryland to Colorado. Once they arrived at the base of the 14,115 foot mountain, they strapped on their gear and started out in the early morning. It wasn’t long, though, before winds started blowing.

A handful of the hikers turned back, but not Daddy and a few of his wrestling-friends. A little further on, rain started pelting and they became buffeted against the side of a cliff. When the rain didn’t let up, everyone decided to call it quits. Except my father. He knew he was so close to his goal, he would just hike the last part to the top, find the stone marker designating the highest point, then turn around and catch up to his friends before they reached the bottom.

That didn’t happen. The rain turned to snow. The wind sent icy fingers down his jacket collar.

After a while, the terrain leveled off and Daddy was certain he had reached the top, but he couldn’t find the pile of stones in the blinding blizzard. He knew time was precious and turned around to retrace his steps. But his footprints were filled in by snow. He couldn’t see the trail to head back down. It grew dark and the storm didn’t let up. He knew he needed to get off the mountain.

When Daddy told me this story many years later, his solemn tone gave me chills as he relayed the serious danger he was in. Trudging through the snowdrifts and frigid night, he knew he could not stop to rest. It would be the end of him, if he sat down in the snow to take a break from walking.

Step, after step, after step, John King Eareckson did his best to find his way down the mountain.

Time blended together and when light seeped through the heavy snow, he knew another day had arrived, but he had no idea how far he still had to go. A line of trees gave him hope that he was now at a lower elevation, but as he drew near the pine branches, the snow gave way beneath him. He fell, not realizing that the trees he saw were merely the tops of tall pines growing dozens of feet below.

My father spent more than 48 hours alone on Pike’s Peak. In all that time, he never rested, too scared of what might happen if he paused for just a moment. With each plodding step, he kept time with the words from one of his favorite hymns, Let the Lower Lights Keep Burning. 

Weary and cold as he was, he clung to the words: “Some poor fainting, struggling seaman, you may rescue, you may save.”

Having served years earlier in the Merchant Marines, he knew he was that struggling seaman. The hymn provided words to his earnest prayer for rescue. I’ve never found myself lost in the driving snow like Daddy, but I think I know what he felt in the frigid dark, alone and uncertain as to whether or not he’d make it. There are nights when the sharp teeth of pain eat through my defenses, and I long to curl up and ignore the wearying plod forward. But to cave in now would be the ruin of me. Like my daddy, I must “set my face like a flint” and keep moving forward (Isaiah 50:7). And, like my father, I bolster my courage by taking the words of beloved hymns and using them as prayers for rescue. 

To finish the story, eventually, on the backside of Pike’s Peak, Daddy came across railroad tracks and followed them until he stumbled upon a miner’s old cabin. There, in the bare hospitality in front of a coal stove, he rested with a mug of hot coffee (his first and only taste of the stuff). His safe return made the newspapers back in Baltimore and, oh, what a celebration there was!

There is no small amount of that same determination running through my veins. My years of ambitious hiking are far behind me, but I cling to God for my rescue in the same way Daddy did in the 1933 blizzard on Pike’s Peak. And one day soon, I’ll rest in the heavenly hospitality of my Savior, my Rescuer – and, oh, what a celebration there will be!

-Joni Eareckson Tada