Chapter Three #3
The trail wound through towering pines where shafts of sunlight filtered through the branches, the cool mountain air making every breath feel clean and effortless.
Conversation flowed naturally as the veterans pointed out landmarks from previous years, occasionally stopping to identify wildlife or share stories connected to particular sections of the trail.
Oscar managed to tell three different stories simultaneously while carrying the sixty-pound pack as though it contained pillows rather than emergency equipment.
"You're making that look suspiciously easy," I observed.
"Goalies are built differently."
"Built wider," Ethan muttered.
Oscar was horrified.
"I've been cultivating this physique. I'm not wide."
Ben accepted the pack at the next changeover, adjusting the weight across his shoulders before continuing uphill at exactly the same steady pace he'd maintained all morning.
There was no competition over who carried it longest, no attempt to prove individual strength.
Someone simply took over whenever another player began slowing, and the group continued climbing without breaking stride.
It wasn't until the trail narrowed and the incline steepened that the real purpose of the exercise became obvious.
Conversation gradually disappeared as breathing became heavier.
The easy forest path gave way to uneven rock shelves and loose gravel, forcing everyone to concentrate on each step.
Sweat soaked through shirts despite the cool mountain air, while calves and thighs began protesting with increasing enthusiasm.
Several times I lengthened my stride to pull ahead, only to realize Ryan deliberately maintained a pace allowing members of the group to stay together.
At one particularly steep section Marcus slipped on loose shale, dropping briefly to one knee before catching himself against a tree. Before he'd even regained his balance, Ben reached for the backpack while Ethan offered a hand without either of them breaking the routine of the climb.
"You good?" Ryan asked.
"Fine."
Ryan waited until Marcus was steady before signaling everyone forward again.
Watching the exchange, I understood exactly what Coach had meant back at the lodge. Nobody criticized Marcus. Nobody complained about losing momentum. Helping him wasn't considered an interruption to the exercise.
It was the exercise.
By midday we reached a broad granite outcrop overlooking the lake. The center below appeared tiny, its log buildings barely visible amongst the endless forest. Viktor finally called a halt, allowing each of us to collapse wherever they happened to be standing.
Oscar fell dramatically onto his back.
"I've seen heaven."
Ethan's head tilted back as he gazed toward the sky.
"Where?"
"It's flat."
Laughter rippled across the group despite our obvious exhaustion.
Ryan unscrewed his water bottle before turning to face me.
"How you holding up?"
"I've had easier mornings."
"You'll survive."
"I figured as much."
For the first time since arriving at Evergreen, I realized nobody had asked whether I could keep up. They'd just assumed I would.
For some reason, that confidence from teammates I'd known less than a few hours made me determined not to disappoint them.
Lunch lasted barely thirty minutes before Coach Callahan gathered all of us beneath the shade of a stand of towering cedars overlooking the lake. The veterans were already on their feet before the whistle had finished echoing, leaving the newcomers scrambling to follow.
We refilled our water bottles from large, insulated containers the support staff had transported to the checkpoint, stretched aching muscles, and accepted protein bars before beginning the long hike back down the mountain.
The hike back to the lodge passed in tired silence. Coach allowed barely enough time to refill water bottles before leading us toward the open field behind the cabins.
At first glance, there appeared to be nothing particularly challenging about the area.
Several thick ropes lay coiled on the grass beside weathered wooden beams, a stack of old tractor tires rested beneath the trees, and a pair of canoes sat upside down near the shoreline.
It was more like an outdoor education camp than the training ground for one of the country's leading college hockey programs.
Coach allowed us a minute to study the equipment before speaking.
"Most people believe leadership belongs to captains."
He picked up one end of a thick climbing rope.
"They're wrong."
Without warning, he tossed it toward Ryan, who caught it easily.
"Leadership belongs to whoever chooses to step forward when the team needs them."
His gaze travelled slowly across the group.
"Sometimes that's your captain."
He turned his focus on Ben.
"Sometimes it's the quietest player on the roster."
Then Ethan.
"Sometimes it's the player who keeps everyone laughing when morale disappears."
Finally his attention turned to me.
"And sometimes it's the newest player in the room."
The statement caught me completely by surprise.
Coach continued before anyone could react.
"The next few hours aren't about strength. They're about communication. You'll work in different groups each time. Your success depends entirely on how well you listen to one another."
What followed became the most demanding afternoon I'd experienced since I first laced on a pair of skates as a child.
We dragged tires across uneven ground using ropes that required every member of the team pulling together or the load refused to move.
We carried heavy wooden beams through dense forest without allowing them to touch the ground, forcing constant communication as branches, rocks and narrow paths threatened to throw everyone out of step.
Blindfolded navigation exercises demanded complete trust as one player relied entirely on teammates' directions to negotiate a winding course between trees.
Nobody dominated.
Nobody tried to be the hero.
Whenever someone made a mistake, the group stopped, adjusted, and started again without complaint.
Late in the afternoon Coach introduced what the veterans referred to as The Hill. From the bottom it appeared vertical.
The challenge itself sounded deceptively simple. Each group would carry all equipment used throughout the day to the summit without leaving anything behind. There were no time limits and no prizes for finishing first. The only rule was that all players had to reach the top together.
Halfway up the climb Oscar's breathing became noticeably heavier.
"You all right?" Ryan asked.
"I'm good."
"You sure?"
"I've been better," the big man admitted.
Without waiting for further discussion, Ben relieved Oscar of the beam resting across his shoulder while Marcus collected another rope from him.
Oscar frowned.
"I didn't ask for help."
Ryan was amused.
"You didn't have to."
Nobody made a joke.
Nobody questioned the decision.
The climb continued.
Watching the exchange affected me more than I expected. On previous teams I'd often seen players hide fatigue because they feared appearing weak. Here, helping one another wasn't viewed as weakness. It was expected.
By the time we reached the summit we were exhausted. Shirts clung to sweat-soaked backs, conversations had dwindled to little more than tired laughter and more than one teammate dropped onto the grass as soon as Coach announced we'd finished.
He waited until everyone had recovered enough to stand before addressing us.
"You've spent today believing this retreat was about conditioning."
Several players exchanged knowing smiles.
"It wasn't."
He folded his arms.
"Hockey doesn't reward the strongest player. It rewards the five players willing to trust one another enough to make the right decision under pressure."
He gazed toward the mountains stretching endlessly behind us.