“I Am Not Eating That Cursed Jambalaya”

“I am not eating that cursed jambalaya.”

I made my point clear. I would much rather have cold canned tuna in a bowl than that warm Southern rice dish.

It was because of the curse.

The curse had been upon us for exactly four years. Every time we ate the infamous dish, something bad happened. In Colorado, we ate the jambalaya during a rainstorm that almost washed away our tents. In British Columbia, we ate the jambalaya in a tent, aptly named Swamp Tent, as it remained flooded all night. In California, we ate the jambalaya at the base camp of Mount Shasta, an experience I’m sure many would love to forget. But now, I was not willing to risk another act of God. I would not eat the jambalaya.

We had been backpacking on a ridge facing Mount Denali for three days. We had been in Alaska for nearly three weeks. I came into this experience severely depressed. Before, I rarely slept or ate. I found it hard to talk to people. Sometimes I would retreat into my room for days on end. I lost contact with most of my close friends. I flew to Alaska, not knowing how I would handle it. I flew in feeling like I had lost my grip on life. I was hoping and praying that this would solve it.

The Denali backpack so far had been nothing short of mind blowing. The first morning, I woke up before everyone else, and was greeted to a solitary, majestic view of Denali, sitting there in all her beauty. We had hiked to the top of a ridge and spotted a plane flying through the valley below us. We had hiked through forests, swamps and alpine meadows. We had crossed creeks and traversed alpine passes. We had climbed grandiose hillsides that seemed to go up forever. We found a pit toilet without walls, just sitting in a field. We had toothbrush dance parties. The theme song for the trip, we decided, was “Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard” by Paul Simon. And by some miracle, someone had it downloaded. We sometimes spent our time in silence, but more often we were in deep conversation or laughing so hard, we started coughing. It was a beautiful, dreamy experience.

I soon found that each person on that trip had their own struggles, and we shared them with each other. I talked to a girl about how alone we both felt at home. I talked to another guy about rejection, I talked to someone about how it felt to be severely depressed. The space offered an open forum, where we would all bring our issues to the table. We all began to heal together.

I had known these people for three years, but we’d never talked like this before. Our normal lives had caught up with us. Previously, we spent our time in nature just having fun without talking about what problems were happening. This was the first time we explained our issues to each other. It was new to us. This, for us, was therapy.

Although therapy is often somber, our approach wasn’t. We spent our time feeling joy. We were happy to be together, experiencing a magical place. But we all credit that third night with feeling the most joy that we possibly could. The rain clouds came close, and we buckled down for a storm, but it never came. The clouds broke on the ridge below us. We stood there, at first in silence. Then we started laughing. We laughed at everything. We danced, we cried, we sang “Me and Julio.” The joy was contagious. We went to sleep that night knowing that we had just experienced a core moment in our lives. 

After that night, life became different. I progressed forward differently. I realized I have to find little moments of joy in my life. Those moments will carry me through. I realized I can celebrate my problems. I can experience magical moments with the people I love. That is what keeps me going. In the end, I’m glad I didn’t fold and eat that jambalaya.