A Reliable Stride

SEPTEMBER 30, 2020. I hiked Mt. Ellinor in the Olympic National Forest yesterday. It’s a steep climb, just under 6,000 feet at the top. There is an upper trailhead and a lower trailhead in the Hood Canal District of the Olympic National Forest, and I chose to start my climb at the upper trailhead, partly because the climb is a little shorter from there, and partly because there is a toilet at that trailhead. I climbed 2,500 feet in a little less than three miles and a little more than two hours.

That last ascent of the climb was a butt-kicker. I had to stop and catch my breath every switchback.

But this particular trail rewards its travelers with exquisite views all along the way. Stopping to catch my breath gave me an opportunity to look up and ooo and ahhh. Even though it was a little bit hazy yesterday, I could still see Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Baker in the distance from the trail, and when I made it to the top, Mt. Olympus and all of the Olympic Mountains were sparkling clear on the other side.

This morning I felt lucky to live in such a beautiful part of the country and grateful for my legs, which were sore from the workout.

It was the first time I had made it to the top of this mountain. I attempted it some years ago with my sister and youngest daughter, in May, and there was more snow that year than we were prepared for, so we turned around before we made it to the top.

This climb today was also the hardest one I’d done in a while. The challenge felt good.

I never seem to be able to hit the trail with both boots and just go, like some. I generally start slow on a hike, and yesterday was no different. I needed time to adjust from the transition of sitting and driving to walking. After a few steps, I had to adjust my boot straps, tighten, loosen, then stop to take a drink of water. My attention moved from the creak in my ankles, to the hitch in my hip, to the stiffness in my neck, which I knew would eventually get walked out if I kept moving. I adjusted my pack’s shoulder straps several times before they felt right. I stopped to put on sunscreen because I forgot to do that before I left the car.

I fuss a lot. Frankly, I get to! I get to take as much time as I want. No one is rushing me; I’m out here alone. I love living my life at my own pace. I’m not completely alone, of course, there are other hikers on the trail. We greet each other, and put on masks when we pass each other along the trail. We respect each other’s pace, and each other’s space. The trail is a terrific leveler.

On any trail I take, I allow my thoughts to ramble. Sometimes they go where I don’t necessarily want them to go if I’m not careful. Yesterday, I noticed that when I finally got my pack and my boots adjusted, and my stride became more regular and reliable, my brain went off on thoughts about my first marriage and divorce, decades ago, of all damn things. I wondered if my ex thought about those years as much as I do. I wondered if he had any regrets, like I do.

Then while my feet and legs climb the steep trail, my brain moved on to thoughts about the present and why I’m having so much trouble getting this Life Reinvention blog going.

 “What are you resisting?” my sister asked me when I brought up my writing routine, or lack thereof, on the phone just yesterday.

Resistance. Yeah, that’s it. Stephen Pressfield, in his book War of Art, which my son gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago, writes that Resistance is a nasty force which attacks all creative people at one time or another. He says that Resistance is first and foremost about Fear.

Fear of what? It’s just writing. When I was a young journalist, I could crank out a story pretty quickly and I never missed a deadline. When I was older and in graduate school, I had no problem writing a 20-page research paper in a few hours, between prepping for dinner and helping the kids and bedtime. (That always impressed my husband Bill.) And I remember those times as being good times, vital and fun and crazy, and full of love and purpose.

But those times were also harried and stressful, and I know that I can’t live that sort of pace again. If I put too much on my plate now, anxiety rears its ugly butt. And too much on my plate nowadays doesn’t look like much at all from the perspective of my former over-achiever Self.

Maybe the reason I’m having trouble getting this regular blogging routine started is because I’m still transitioning from my old life (wife, mother, teacher, musician, responsible citizen and homeowner) to my re-invented one, which isn’t in a reliable stride yet. I am still fussing and adjusting and walking out those creaky ankles, stiff neck and low back pain.

Big or small, all transitions take time. The bigger the transition, the more time it takes.

Just last week was the third anniversary of Bill’s death. I thought about this, too, while I climbed yesterday. I have lost three people who were extremely close to me within three years and one month’s time. My mom in December of 2015 and Bill in September of 2017. Then shortly thereafter, our good friend and record producer Linda Waterfall, who lost her husband the year prior, found out her cancer had come back after 17 years of remission. Then she died in January of 2019.

Three major losses, three years. I hadn’t thought about it that way until just now. No wonder I have been so tired.

Ironically enough, it was Linda who first pointed that out.

“Think about all you’ve been through,” she would say to me when I would judge myself for not getting more done after Bill died. During her final six months, I visited her a couple of days every week. She and I were a bereavement group of two back then, and I miss our deeply personal and grounding conversations. She shared with me the weird complexities of living in a consciousness of trying to keep death at bay while at the same time preparing for it. I shared with her chapters from my book, my intimate fears of the future, regrets of the past. And, we compared our grieving processes while watching silly rom-coms and eating sushi.

One time in the distant past when Bill and I were recording our first CD, I arrived at an evening recording session exhausted from substitute teaching that day. I was scheduled to lay down vocal tracks, but my voice was not in good form because of using it all day at school. Linda scolded me for coming to the studio not ready to work.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said. “There is nothing more important than your art.”

As I continue my journey of reinvention, those words bubble up.

Whenever Resistance or Imposter Syndrome or Anxiety assert themselves, I think of her words, and that has been often lately, on and off the trail.

It was a difficult climb yesterday, but I had no doubt I would get to the top. I took my time. And when I arrived at the top, greeted by gray jays and chipmunks, and a few other hikers, I looked around from the higher perspective and took stock of how far I had come.