Lifting Carts

Road tripping, rock climbing, and a nasty, magical A-frame

Hey there, friends of the Crash Cart Campfire. It’s been a while since we wrapped up My PalliMed Mixtape with an all-timer from George Harrison. What a journey that was…I apologize for the radio silence since! I’ve had a lot on my mind since then and a lot I’ve wanted to share, but haven’t exactly known how to jump back in. With all the craziness in the world in recent days, I thought I’d just share a simple story I hope we can all relate to! (This story was originally shared with the Travis County Medical Society’s Physician Wellness Program.) It’s called Lifting Carts, and it goes like this:

We lived that summer in a tiny A-frame house in the shadow of the Teton mountains. It had a front porch, a gravel yard, and an electric stove. I couldn’t have guessed the lilliputian square footage if I’d had to, but I can tell you I could hardly avoid hitting my head on the ceiling of the upstairs loft I shared with two strangers. Trey had the palatial downstairs bedroom to himself…and he should’ve. He paid a greater percentage of the five-hundred-dollar-a-month rent. Not only that, Trey had been the catalyst for this whole operation.

A lot of us didn’t really have much direction in life right after college, but Trey had always had one very clear direction—west. To the mountains. That’s where we could find him, and where he was going to stay. By the first winter after college graduation, while Trey was thriving out west, thyroid problems had disrupted my east coast post-college plans. As I found myself convalescing in my parent’s home in Houston and working part-time as a substitute teacher, I struggled again to find direction. What was I doing with my life? What do I do now? I dreamt often of mountains and gave Trey a call.

Trey must have lied about my wilderness bona fides to his employers at the National Outdoor Leadership School because he landed me a job working alongside him for the summer. What a dream! I had a job, in the mountains, living in a nasty old A-frame with one of my best pals.

There really is nothing quite like driving through the great American West in your twenties. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more carefree than I did that summer, even though I really had no business working at that outdoor school. I knew far less than our students about surviving for a month in the woods. I didn’t know how to repair boots or backpacks. I could barely handle the stick shift F-350 truck with a trailer full of gear as I transported students across mountain passes in Montana and into the Owyhee Desert of Southwestern Idaho. This was not imposter syndrome—I was actually an imposter!

When we weren’t working, Trey and I would rock climb or hike up into the Tetons or fly fish. He was better at all of these than I was, but he coached me up as best he could. When good bands came through town we’d go see them. Sometimes we’d play guitar on the porch under the starry sky. Most nights were pretty quiet, though. Actually, really quiet. I would try to get some conversation going, but it often didn’t work. Trey didn’t talk unnecessarily nor betray much emotion. He really was a Western man, cut straight from some tough Clint Eastwood cloth. Trey would sit in his chair after a day of outworking me and outclimbing me, read twenty pages or so of the unabridged Les Miserables, and fall asleep.

Over the summer months my physical and mental health steadily improved, I grew in confidence and outdoor savvy, and I figured out what I was doing at work. I think I even got pretty decent at handling the F-350. As summer turned to fall and the aspen leaves began to yellow, I made a tough decision to move back to Texas to pursue some other opportunities. A number of us were leaving at the end of that summer, but Trey would stay behind. He had always known his direction, and that wasn’t changing now.

We shook hands and parted. I couldn’t swear to it, but I think I saw a little moisture in his eyes as he said to me, “It’s been good, friend. Who knows? Maybe next time I’ll be the one under the cart.”

What a strange thing to say. I asked him to clarify. “Under the cart?”

“You know…in Les Miserables…Jean Valjean rescues the old man from getting crushed under the weight of the cart. He lifts it off of him. Maybe I’ll be under the cart next time.”

I drove off south and east, watching the A-frame and the Tetons fade in my rearview mirror, thinking about Trey’s surprisingly profound farewell. I hadn’t realized just how low I’d been a few months back, and how much my buddy had done to help me out from under that cart of illness and disappointment. I’ve been thinking about his words for two decades now. I am grateful for friends who’ve helped me over the years, not least some physician friends who’ve been with me through some pretty tough times. I am thankful that in Travis County we have the Physician Wellness Program, a cart-lifting enterprise. If you find yourself struggling under too much weight, please reach out to a friend, a family member, a colleague, or a local support group. And keep your eyes peeled for opportunities to help lift a cart for someone else.

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Tell me, Crash Cart Campfire friends:

• Who has helped lift a cart or two for you?

• Any cart-lifting enterprises you’d commend to others?

• Had any opportunities lately to help someone out from under too much weight?