Of Mountains and Men Seacoast Men’s Hike: A Spiritual Journey of Self-Discovery

Note: What happens on the mountain stays on the mountain. Names and personal stories have been kept private out of respect for the individuals and their families. This story is dedicated to and inspired by the men who endured the Seacoast Men’s Hike of Spring 2024, thanks brothers.

As a newfound Christian, my goal for personal and spiritual growth as of late has been to try new experiences that make me feel uncomfortable. By that I mean expanding my horizons and challenging my faith to grow in ways I could have never before imagined. My motto: Do it afraid.

Recently, I did something very uncharacteristic that my former self would vehemently reject. In hindsight, I know now that I was a shell of the man that I am today. Although my metamorphosis is nowhere near complete, my soul has never felt more cleansed, except for when I was baptized two years ago.

My family and I regularly attend Seacoast Church and I’ve been looking for ways to explore life outside of my comfort zone. In April, I decided to go on a men’s hike with my church group. In retrospect, I’ve never been tested more physically, mentally and spiritually in my life. It was a rude, but much needed awakening.

I’m not a hiker, nor do I pretend to be. I don’t possess the proper skills or equipment to do so. I’ve never camped out of a backpack or even pitched my own tent for that matter. However, thanks to my friends at REI, I was prepared as I could possibly be for my trek into the unknown.

The hike was faith-based in all senses of the word. I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know how far we were hiking. I wasn’t allowed to have any contact with the outside world. All I knew was that I would be stuck on a mountain for four days with strangers and no electronics. I had no choice but to trust the process and I’m glad I did because in the end I was better for it.

Shields Up

My alarm clock buzzing at 3 a.m. on Thursday sounded off Day 1. I tossed and turned all night, yet somehow, I had the energy equivalency of a marathon runner in peak stride. My first order of business was to call my “battle buddy,” the hiking partner I was assigned, to make sure that he was awake for our departure. He informed me that he didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. I chuckled because the feeling was mutual. At least we were both in the same boat.

Our orders were to ship out promptly at 5 a.m. from an undisclosed location. What was intended to be a church mission felt more like a military objective. For a moment, I questioned whether my wife secretly signed me up for boot camp. Afterall, the good Lord knows that I could use more structure in my life. Later aspects of the hike would make me revisit this question.

Before the wheels hit the pavement, me and 100 other brave souls formed an elongated prayer circle in the remote parking lot. All of us were wearing the same shirt with a scripture from the Bible on the back that read: “I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.” — Philippians 4:13

We locked arms in unison like a band of brothers on the brink of war. We went “shields up,” with our arms around the man to the left and the right of you. We bowed our heads in prayer as we asked God to watch over our journey the next four days. I could feel a calming state of peacefulness consuming me. My mind was no longer racing, and the goosebumps had subsided. I knew I was ready for whatever God had in store for me. There was no point of return, only onward through the fray.

The Climb

When we arrived at our destination, I could feel reality sink in. We were in the middle of nowhere. There were no signs of civilization and certainly no cell phone service. In fact, there were more pine trees than people. We were off the grid and out of pocket and it never felt so liberating to be truly unreachable.

By the time our supplies were loaded, and all our gear was fastened, our packs had to weigh approximately 50 pounds. My backpack contained four pairs of shirts, shorts, socks and underwear, water shoes, MRE meals and snacks, two 32-ounce water bottles, a tent, a collapsible chair, first-aid kit, a trowel and my lucky hunting knife bestowed by my father-in-law. It felt as if I was giving a small child a never-ending piggyback ride. Little did I know that the weight I was carrying would be the least of my worries.

The first mile of the hike struck like a sucker punch to the face. The immediate incline resembled a stairway to heaven, except in this case I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I quickly realized that I was horribly out of shape, my muscles were poorly conditioned and my stamina had a short fuse. As the fatigue set in, I could feel every ounce of pride leave my body. I left my ego on that mountain because I couldn’t possibly afford to carry any more dead weight.

After four more miles and heavy perspiration, my team and I made it to our first campsite. There was no greater relief than unbuckling our pack and instantly losing 50 pounds. The next best feeling was untying our boots and slipping our socks off to let our feet breathe. As I stared at the complexion of my pale white toes, I noticed two bright red spots on both pinkies: blisters. I winced as they were tender and sore to the touch. The initial sting was just the beginning, and the ache would only worsen. I knew it was going to be a long, painful road ahead.

Before I could address my wound, I needed to help fetch firewood and set up my tent for the evening. My sleeping arrangement consisted of a sleeping bag and a neck pillow. I didn’t have room for a sleeping mat in my backpack so the hard ground would have to suffice. That was a rookie mistake, along with a few more I would add to my resume in the days to come.

Fireside Confessions

After dinner, which always consisted of a dehydrated meal made ready to eat by simply adding hot water, we huddled around the campfire and sang songs of worship. We swapped stories about ourselves to get to know one another and build a sense of camaraderie. There were a total of 18 men in our group and by trip’s end, I knew all their names by heart and a whole lot more.

As the night lingered on and the coals in the fire burned brighter, the conversation would turn into an intervention. Every night, one of the team leaders would read a sermon and ask us to engage on a personal level. Some of the men poured their hearts out in confession and gave raw testimonies of struggles, while others listened and assured them they are not alone in this battle.

The topics ranged from imposter syndrome to family wounds and seeking validation. What I learned from these discussions is that we all have a cross to bear and sins to confess, but we don’t all have a safe place to share it, release it and ultimately be free from it.

The Plunge

It was mid-afternoon on Friday, Day 2, when we came to a halt on a riverbank after 5 miles of soul searching. There’s nothing quite like a source of cold refreshment after a long, hot day. Normally, I would be referring to a can of ice-cold beer, but in this case, it would be a frigid little river.

The water had to be 50 degrees at best, but it was hard to tell because my body was entirely numb. By the looks on the faces of the other men, it was much, much colder. I’ve also never heard a grown man let out a silent shriek. It felt like an all-natural form of cryotherapy.

There was one act you had to commit if you wanted to enter the river: the plunge. One must fully submit and submerge themselves in the water. This was our initiation into the brotherhood.

One by one, I watched each brother take the plunge. Some did dives and others did cannonballs. When my turn came, I looked at my team leader and shouted “God, I love my church!” and performed the coldest push-up I could have ever imagined. When I came up for air, I could hear all of my brothers clapping and cheering. I’ve never felt like more of a man in my entire life.

This moment of clarity answered the question I had been pondering in the book we were assigned to read entitled “Wild at Heart” by John Eldredge: Do you have what it takes to be a man? From that day on my answer to the question would never waver. Yes, yes I do!

Letters from Home

The sun was high in the sky on Saturday, Day 3, when we stopped to take a rest. We had just trudged through 10 rivers that were waist-deep in some sections. Luckily, I didn’t fall in, but the same couldn’t be said for a few of my brothers who were soaked, their packs now waterlogged.

Provisions were depleted and morale was diminishing. As we squatted down to nibble on the morsels of food that we had left, we were treated to a wonderful surprise: letters from home.

These pieces of parchment were exactly what we needed at a time such as this. We needed these words of encouragement to keep us motivated and finish the job that we all came here to do: conquer the mountain.

I wiped away the tears rolling down my cheeks as I read what my wife, parents and in-laws had to say about the adventure I embarked on. In so many words, they expressed how proud they are of the man that I’ve become. These words of affirmation were empowering to hear, but the most validating of all was the voice of Father God affirming how proud he was of me, his son.

My heart was nourished, and I had enough fuel to beat on another 5 miles before sundown.

Rock Bottom

I was hoping to wake up to the rays of light from the early morning sun illuminating my tent. I should have prayed harder because it was quite the contrary. A heavy squall of rain dampened Sunday, Day 4, the final day of our pilgrimage.

Everything and everyone was soaked. We bypassed breakfast and skipped our morning worship routine, hurriedly packing up to hit the trail one last time. We were in the homestretch, but I can assure you we were running on fumes.

For being the holy day of the week, God showed us no mercy in terms of the weather conditions. The rain turned the trail into a muddy slush the consistency of chocolate pudding. On several occasions, my hiking poles almost got stuck and nearly became a permanent fixture of the mountain.

We were moving at a good pace considering the elements we faced. I could sense that we were almost out of the woods when suddenly we came to a screeching stop. We all had a look of bewilderment because we were nearing the end of the descent, and the base was in sight.

The team leaders instructed us to take out our rock that we were told to pick up earlier on our travels. They asked us to write down one word that has defined you your entire life. I wrote “fear.” My whole life I’ve felt fear that I would never measure up to my peers or be the man that my father expected me to be or the husband that my wife desires or the father that my unborn children need.

Nevermore would I let this fear stunt my growth as a person and a child of God. I took that rock and cast it into a river nearby and watched it sink to the bottom of the pits. A place where it could never haunt me again.

As I vanquished the fears of my adolescence and early adulthood, I was asked to pick up another rock from a special bag. It read: Spirit of Power, 2 Tim 1:7. The scripture reads: “​​For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.”

God answered the prayers that I thought had gone unheard for many years. All this time, He was listening and nudging me in the right direction through my trials and tribulations.

As we stepped off the mountain and back into society, I knew I was forever changed. It felt like the war was over after all these years of battling my own demons. Victory was ours. It wasn’t every man for himself, we were a team, a united front and a band of brothers.

By Zach Giroux