Yesterday, I hiked with my nephew and his friend up Mt. Si.
I take that back. I didn't hike with my nephew and his friend. I hiked by myself three-quarters of the way up Mt. Si. I walked slowly. I stopped three times to eat lunch to take care of my blood sugar when I felt it drop. I took pictures of those little holes burrowed under the trunks of trees where animals lived. I talked to lots of people. I was silent in between.
It was great.
I've gotten so slow that I hate hiking with people and trying to keep up. If I need to keep up, I hike myself into a state of dizziness. If I have to keep up and can't, I feel bad the whole way, as if I'm doing something to the person who has the miserable job of staying behind with me.
When I let them go on, assure them that I'm fine, I'll come along at my own pace, I let myself feel the joy of hiking again. Oh, I love the endorphins.
Within two-tenths of a mile, I told my nephew and his friend to take the dogs and head on up at their own pace. I wanted Teddy to get to the snow if he could. He loves snow. I wanted to stay on the wet side and look at stuff, dawdle.
Just past seven-tenths of a mile, I began to get shaky and I stopped to eat. I felt ridiculous, but I needed to stop. I had a beautiful salad of spinach, ham, and strawberries. I should try ham and pineapple sometime, a Hawaiian salad. That would be good. I laid my rain pants on a rock and looked out through the trees.
A woman stopped to say what a nice picnic I was having. We talked for a while. She was slow like I was. She told me she was recovering from an injury. This was a woman I'd have been good friends with if she lived anywhere near me.
"No two people share the same hike," she said.
Heraclitus said, "No man steps in the same river twice for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."
I wanted to talk about that more, but the conversation tripped along ahead of me. I like thinking about that line, how many times I've gone back to the same spot by the river. And then she was gone, off on her own adventure. It was quiet again.
I petted every dog that came up to me on the trail. I'm pretty sure they were drawn by the smell of ham on my fingers. Along came a black and white border collie asking to be petted. He'd been leaping up the trail. The person with him was a lithe and cheerful woman. I liked her on sight.
She was a person with a calm and cheerfulness that floated around her like a cloud. I wanted to breathe in that air. I'm not the most calm and cheerful person most of the time. I wonder if I'll ever let go of the rush and ease into an easier mode of being. Will it be a conscious choice or will I be a crabby old woman for the rest of my life?
This morning after good exercise outside yesterday, I feel calm, relaxed. I should get good exercise every day. Teddy would like that too.
On that trail, each person who stopped to talk to me gave me their own tiny gift. One man told me about hiking Mt. Everest. Oh I could feel his passion for the quest. After his guide had said they must turn back, he'd met a man who was hypothermic and helped him, gave him his spare coat, called on his radio for help. It was a story full of generosity and heartbreak. I was awed by his persistence.
There's a trend on Instagram - the unlikely hiker.
This man fell into that category, shorter, Asian, different than your usual lean adrenaline junkie. I asked him to write the book about his mountains. He told me there were plenty of those books. But at least he spent the time and told me some of his stories, amazing stories. I breathed in those stories like a child at bedtime.
And then it was quiet in the forest again. A fog crept between the trees. A yellow-bellied sapsucker tapped at a dead tree at eye level. He didn't even move to the back of the tree out of sight like they usually do.
I felt a calm creep between the cracks in my soul.
This.
This was what I had needed when my nephew asked me to hike and I had said yes knowing full well I could never keep up with them.
I met up with them again near the trailhead. Dusk had arrived and I'd turned back downhill because I didn't want to trip down that steep trail in the dark. Fewer people stopped to talk now. Fewer people passed my way. Dogs coming back down were worn out, wet, and muddy, ready for a good meal at home and the comfort of their beds.
At seven-tenths of a mile, at the marker for the Talus loop, my stiff knee began to be finished, my toenails were tired of bouncing off the toes of my boots. I slowed way down and kept tension on my knees as I stepped down each of the the steep steps. I made a point of alternating feet. I'm left-footed. Usually, it's my right knee that takes most of the stress of the downhill climb. I needed to spread it out.
The fog and the dripping became a steadier rain. It flattened my hair and dripped down the back of my neck.
When Teddy and the rest of them caught up with me, he nuzzled his head into my legs and groaned. I could dry him off. I could find him his cozy place to lie down. I could get him home to a good meal and time on the couch.
My nephew, his friend, and I came off the mountain alternating stories of snow, the summit, and people on the trail.
I didn't tell them about the yellow-bellied sapsucker and how the bird was relaxed enough with me to let me watch him eat his dinner. I could never have conveyed the calm of that moment, a forest quietly dripping, the hollow tap of the bird finding bugs to eat, the fog making a safe place for both of us.
The peace.
Thank you for listening, jb
I take that back. I didn't hike with my nephew and his friend. I hiked by myself three-quarters of the way up Mt. Si. I walked slowly. I stopped three times to eat lunch to take care of my blood sugar when I felt it drop. I took pictures of those little holes burrowed under the trunks of trees where animals lived. I talked to lots of people. I was silent in between.
It was great.
I've gotten so slow that I hate hiking with people and trying to keep up. If I need to keep up, I hike myself into a state of dizziness. If I have to keep up and can't, I feel bad the whole way, as if I'm doing something to the person who has the miserable job of staying behind with me.
When I let them go on, assure them that I'm fine, I'll come along at my own pace, I let myself feel the joy of hiking again. Oh, I love the endorphins.
Within two-tenths of a mile, I told my nephew and his friend to take the dogs and head on up at their own pace. I wanted Teddy to get to the snow if he could. He loves snow. I wanted to stay on the wet side and look at stuff, dawdle.
Just past seven-tenths of a mile, I began to get shaky and I stopped to eat. I felt ridiculous, but I needed to stop. I had a beautiful salad of spinach, ham, and strawberries. I should try ham and pineapple sometime, a Hawaiian salad. That would be good. I laid my rain pants on a rock and looked out through the trees.
A woman stopped to say what a nice picnic I was having. We talked for a while. She was slow like I was. She told me she was recovering from an injury. This was a woman I'd have been good friends with if she lived anywhere near me.
"No two people share the same hike," she said.
Heraclitus said, "No man steps in the same river twice for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."
I wanted to talk about that more, but the conversation tripped along ahead of me. I like thinking about that line, how many times I've gone back to the same spot by the river. And then she was gone, off on her own adventure. It was quiet again.
I petted every dog that came up to me on the trail. I'm pretty sure they were drawn by the smell of ham on my fingers. Along came a black and white border collie asking to be petted. He'd been leaping up the trail. The person with him was a lithe and cheerful woman. I liked her on sight.
She was a person with a calm and cheerfulness that floated around her like a cloud. I wanted to breathe in that air. I'm not the most calm and cheerful person most of the time. I wonder if I'll ever let go of the rush and ease into an easier mode of being. Will it be a conscious choice or will I be a crabby old woman for the rest of my life?
This morning after good exercise outside yesterday, I feel calm, relaxed. I should get good exercise every day. Teddy would like that too.
On that trail, each person who stopped to talk to me gave me their own tiny gift. One man told me about hiking Mt. Everest. Oh I could feel his passion for the quest. After his guide had said they must turn back, he'd met a man who was hypothermic and helped him, gave him his spare coat, called on his radio for help. It was a story full of generosity and heartbreak. I was awed by his persistence.
There's a trend on Instagram - the unlikely hiker.
This man fell into that category, shorter, Asian, different than your usual lean adrenaline junkie. I asked him to write the book about his mountains. He told me there were plenty of those books. But at least he spent the time and told me some of his stories, amazing stories. I breathed in those stories like a child at bedtime.
And then it was quiet in the forest again. A fog crept between the trees. A yellow-bellied sapsucker tapped at a dead tree at eye level. He didn't even move to the back of the tree out of sight like they usually do.
I felt a calm creep between the cracks in my soul.
This.
This was what I had needed when my nephew asked me to hike and I had said yes knowing full well I could never keep up with them.
I met up with them again near the trailhead. Dusk had arrived and I'd turned back downhill because I didn't want to trip down that steep trail in the dark. Fewer people stopped to talk now. Fewer people passed my way. Dogs coming back down were worn out, wet, and muddy, ready for a good meal at home and the comfort of their beds.
At seven-tenths of a mile, at the marker for the Talus loop, my stiff knee began to be finished, my toenails were tired of bouncing off the toes of my boots. I slowed way down and kept tension on my knees as I stepped down each of the the steep steps. I made a point of alternating feet. I'm left-footed. Usually, it's my right knee that takes most of the stress of the downhill climb. I needed to spread it out.
The fog and the dripping became a steadier rain. It flattened my hair and dripped down the back of my neck.
When Teddy and the rest of them caught up with me, he nuzzled his head into my legs and groaned. I could dry him off. I could find him his cozy place to lie down. I could get him home to a good meal and time on the couch.
My nephew, his friend, and I came off the mountain alternating stories of snow, the summit, and people on the trail.
I didn't tell them about the yellow-bellied sapsucker and how the bird was relaxed enough with me to let me watch him eat his dinner. I could never have conveyed the calm of that moment, a forest quietly dripping, the hollow tap of the bird finding bugs to eat, the fog making a safe place for both of us.
The peace.
Thank you for listening, jb
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