The Slog, Part 2
So, there I was, hiking in the Shenandoah National Forest, in November, probably in the first stage of hypothermia, when I heard a man scream.
You might say, “I froze.”
I stopped and listened, thinking I’d imagined it. The wind was roaring over the ridge, after all. And then I heard it again, but this time it sounded like somebody laughing as well.
I shambled along another couple hundred feet or so until I came to the edge of a small clearing. Right there on the other side was the cabin, and there were three guys on the front porch, thick with winter camping gear, doing shots of something. They’d built a fire in the outdoor hearth, though it looked like a pitiful thing against the storm ripping through the trees.
They all took a shot and yelled again. It sounded like, “Yeehaw,” or “Yeah,” or maybe even “Salve!” But I was pretty sure I hadn’t just run into Latin speakers in the SNP…
I had no idea who these guys were. But since it was a choice between freezing to death or possibly getting stabbed to death, I chose stabbing. (If you’ve ever been close enough to freezing to death, the choice is surprisingly clear). I emerged from the clearing and approached the cabin.
They just about levitated out of their chairs when they saw me, probably because I pretty much appeared behind them, a presence materializing out of the pelting ice and snow. But once we all realized nobody was a serial killer, and I happened to have the key to the cabin, we were all instant buddies. Turns out they were also stupid hikers too, and they’d settled down in the only shelter they could find when the light faded and the storm came up.
In an hour or so, I was “Yeehawing,” too.
I’ve thought of that hike many times over the years, especially during the moving company “era.” Any time I had long slogs through grinding projects, I’d picture my feet taking one step at a time through the snow on a rapidly disappearing trail. (Jon Krakauer’s account of his disastrous Mt. Everest climb is another one that comes to mind. Blue Ridge Mountains…Mt. Everest…same diff…)
The Slog is that period of time between the shiny new idea and the victorious conclusion…or the bitter failure. The Slog is where most people give up, or at least where I have more times than I care to remember. The Slog is where all the real work happens.
In the movies, the Slog is the montage scene, usually somewhere toward the end of the second act, where the hero is ready for the final trial. It’s “nightfall,” where he or she wrestles with demons of doubt. It’s where he prepares for his central trail with the antagonist.
I always have a pedantic objection to these scenes - the montage is where the real story is, but they gloss over it. It shows the passage of time, the boring construction of the defenses in preparation for the showdown. This is the place and time where the hero’s qualities will be refined or fall short. This is the moment when the hero has to exercise supernatural virtue not to strangle the idiot co-worker who lost the right tool to finish the barricade even as the monsters muster in the valley below. Yes, I realize that showing the hero searching for his hammer doesn’t move the plot along in an appropriately cinematic way, but really, this is where the real work happens!
Anyway…
The Slog is that time between being hired and getting a promotion.
The Slog is that time during a marital separation where you do the work on yourself, and you have no guarantee of reconciliation.
The Slog is the time of grinding out line after line of code for the killer app.
The Slog is putting down word after word to craft the story your soul can see entirely from beginning to end.
The Slog is the many miles between the trailhead and the mountaintop.
There are so many Slogs for new parents, all wrapped up in one long Slog - birth to a good night’s sleep, infancy to toddlerhood, toddlerhood to little unique human, childhood to adolescence. As far as I can see, it never ends (which is far from saying it’s not a joyful slog…)
It’s unsexy. It’s solitary. No one can walk it with you, which is what makes it a Slog. Steven Pressfield was talking about this in The War of Art when he compared having supporters of your work to dying: you can have all the well-wishers you could want at your death bed, but when it’s time for that ship to sail, you’re on your own.
This is why “igniting” that fire inside is so important - you (and I’m shouting this right into my own face) need to be on fire with the quixotic determination that your goal is good, true or beautiful to sustain you through the long, solitary Slog. Otherwise, you’re going to quit and start something new.
I think this is why I’ve always loved Thomas Cole’s “Voyage of Life” in the Smithsonian Gallery of Art. They’re huge paintings. They’re hung in a circular little gallery-within-the-gallery of their own, and they depict, in maybe a little too on-the-nose allegory, the journey of a man from naive infancy, through battles and trials, to a vision of eternal life. I highly recommend it.
I’m going through a couple of them right now. Three, actually, by my count. In a way, you’re reading a motivational note to myself. My mind and body are doing everything they can to find distractions from these horrid Slogs, but I think my soul has had enough of it, and it’s grabbing the both of them by the nape of the neck and marching those two little misters toward the light.
Bottom line: the Slog is a test of faith. The good news? You don’t need to wait for some feeling of transcendence or the reassuring hand of the Muse on your shoulder. You just have to put one foot in front of the other.*
*Predictable results not guaranteed.