Humid Humility

Humid Humility is a feeling of humbleness that is deep, overwhelming, and intense.

I recently encountered this feeling not in a sermon or a poem, but on the side of Mount Stanley, which is the highest peak of the Rwenzori Mountains in Uganda. I had been planning the ascent for months. I'm an experienced hiker who has climbed big mountains like those in the Alps and Rockies. I had the best equipment, trained hard, and felt extremely confident. I knew the physical effort would be intense, but I was mentally prepared to simply will myself to the top, regardless of conditions. This, I realize now, was modesty, not true humility,

My guide, a local man named Nikitarr, was an older gentleman who moved with a calm, almost leisurely pace. He carried less gear than I did and spoke only when necessary. Before the final push toward the Margherita Peak summit, which involves traversing ice and rock, I suggested a more aggressive timeline. "Nikitarr," I said, a little patronizingly, "we need to shave an hour off this section if we want the best light at the top. I can move faster than this pace."

Nikitarr simply looked at the sky, which was a clear, stunning blue, and then back at me. "The mountain sets the pace, sir," he said quietly, "not the watch. The mountain always wins a fight with time."

I dismissed his caution as old-school hesitation and pushed ahead during the next traverse. I ignored his warning about a slippery section, believing my global expertise was better than his local knowledge.

And then, it happened. It wasn't a dramatic, movie-style plunge, but a sickening, subtle slip. The ice, hidden by a fine, cold mist, suddenly vanished beneath my left boot. I didn't fall to my death, but I slammed hard against the unforgiving rock face. The impact knocked the wind clean out of me, leaving me scraped, hurting, and pinned to the stone. I lay there for what felt like an endless minute, utterly helpless and clinging to the one thin safety rope I’d tied. The only thing that mattered now was Nikitarr, who moved with terrifying calm to get back to me.

As I lay against the cold stone, the air around me was thick with the humid moisture of the equatorial altitude. And in that heavy, damp air, I felt a deep, overwhelming sense of my own smallness. It wasn't the passing embarrassment of a minor mistake, but a profound, permeating recognition of my actual rank and accomplishment, which, in the face of this indifferent giant of ice and rock, was zero. Yeah, still feel it till date.

This was humid humility. It felt heavy, inescapable, and uncomfortable. My expensive boots, my rigorous training, my globally acquired knowledge, none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the unhurried, local wisdom of the man I had patronized moments before. Nikitarr didn't lecture me; he just assessed my injuries, secured my rope properly, and helped me back to my feet. It still felt embarrassing though.

We eventually reached the summit safely, but we were an hour behind my "aggressive timeline". I didn't care about the perfect light for the photos anymore. The mountain had taught me a lesson that settled deep inside me. Modesty is what you show to others, simply saying, 'I'm not that important,' while humid humility is what you know to be true inside. It is the deep realization that you are small, and feeling the heavy weight of that truth settle into your soul like the cold, damp mountain mist.

I completed the descent, following Nikitarr’s lead without question. I learned that true greatness isn't measured by the clock or the gear, but by the quiet respect for the forces larger than oneself, whether they are mountains, nature, or life itself. The gift of humid humility is that pervasive, heavy, damp feeling of knowing your true place. It makes the world seem vast and your accomplishments sweetly small, yet it makes the act of taking the next step feel deeply important.