got anything left?

Before we can even begin running Section 5 of the Catamount Trail, there is a lot of driving to do. More, actually, than is necessary, it turns out. But that is to become the theme of the day. More driving, more running, more wrong turns, more back-tracking...

Tom and I drive two vehicles from home to the end of Section 5 on Kendall Farm Road. We park the truck and get in my car to drive to the start. The first mistake of the day is to leave the shuttle driving directions at home. The CT does an excellent job of helpfully spelling out exactly where to leave your vehicle at any drop off or pick up point anywhere along the trail and the best route from that point to the start. Googlemaps not so much. So we fumble along consulting the printed google maps directions and the Vermont map to get ourselves awkwardly and inefficiently from the end of Section 5 back to the beginning of it. It takes us about 90 minutes to navigate the convoluted route through remote single lane river-winding dirt roads obviously hit hard by Tropical Storm Irene. (At the end of it all, we realize there was a much more direct route which took only about 20 minutes to our earlier 90. Tom reminds me for the millionth time that there is really nothing about any of this thing I'm doing that’s efficient. I need to let it go.)

Running a half mile or so down Kelley Stand Road toward the beginning of Section 5 we pass the LT/AT parking area, climb a hill, and find the CT heading into the woods on what looks like an old logging road. It feels great to be back in the woods again. My ankle has healed up well and feels strong. Within a few minutes we are consumed by deerflies and find ourselves calf deep in a soggy muddy bog of moose heaven. I search for the high ground and pick my way through, holding onto the idea of keeping my feet dry for as long as possible. Tom splashes right through, transitioning quickly and easily to the “get wet and muddy” part of the adventure. Years ago we had an Australian Shepherd, Sully, who went out of his way to seek out the puddles and dive right into the slop. Tom is an open channel to Sully’s spirit on the trail.

We continue to slog through the moose and deerfly soup for another mile or so until the trail ducks into the woods and climbs to a bit of dry ground. We find ourselves on a well-traveled section of trail which comes out at Stratton Pond. People! Here the Catamount Trail briefly joins the Appalachian Trail and Long Trail which we know because of signage and white blazes and really smelly backpackers. Not that we smell good. Only a couple of miles in and we are both sweat- and stinky mud-covered. This is where the adventure first becomes interesting for awhile. And by interesting I mean we spend the better part of an hour trying different trails that branch out from Stratton Pond and following them for awhile wondering where the CT signs are. Of course, because this is how the universe works, the correct trail is the very last one we try, and so, early into this 10 mile run we’ve already added at least a couple of extra miles. Better to make that mistake while we’re still fresh and energetic and are making jokes about it. A very nice AT hiker gets out his smart phone and tries to help us figure out where to pick up the CT, but all he’s got is the AT mapped out on there. Not a very smart phone if you ask me. Tom wants to stand around and chat but this guy, very nice and all, smells. Like, really really smells. Not his fault, of course. He’s hiking the Appalachian Trail and probably hasn’t seen soap or hot water in weeks. Also, he’s wearing one of those performance moisture-wicking shirts (read: hold onto the stink like your life depends on it shirts).

We discover that the CT piggybacks on the AT/LT for a little while and, assuming we’ve got that silly losing the trail mistake behind us we float along without a worry in the world. Trail running does mean keeping your eyes down a lot, what with having to watch how you place your feet and all. Especially for those of us (me) who trend toward the dorky end of the spectrum and can sprain the living crap out of an ankle on a perfectly flat section of road. (See last blog entry if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) So, with the eyes focused on the trail in front of you, sometimes you will miss a sign. As I sarcastically explain to Tom, it’s also easy to miss signs when you’re running as fast as we are. He matches my sarcasm, adding it’s amazing we haven’t started a forest fire with this blistering pace.

Stopping for a snack gives SBD (Smelly Bearded Dude) enough time to catch up with us. He is, apparently, the fastest hiker in the world because how else would he have caught up to us? We’re running!  Anyway, with a friendly smile he asks if we’re lost again. No, no, we got it, we finally found the trail. He kindly mentions that he thinks the CT branched off of this trail awhile back. Sure enough, we backtrack and see the spot where earlier we had zipped right past the sign indicating that the CT North goes that way. Disaster averted. I wonder how many more miles we would have run before we remembered we were supposed to be looking for blue diamonds, not white hash marks. Thank you, SBD!

The route description provided on the CT website describes all of this in a really helpful printout which I like to carry with me for each section when I run, just in case something like this happens. In the winter, it’s probably easier to figure it out, what with ski tracks to follow and all. If I had not left said printout in the car, we’d be golden. Dumbass.

Three thousand hours and a few more oops missed the trail again detours later we descend a reeeaaaaaallllly lllloooooooonnnnnggggg sssstttttteeeeeeeep hill past a couple of big piles of bear poop and some of those neato translucent peace pipe mushrooms pushing up out of the leaves. At one point the CT seems to go two directions at once, one of which leaves the steep downhill and is labeled “easy way.” Tom and I look at each other, briefly tempted, considering our options. Screw that, we agree. After all this we’re not taking the damn “easy way.” Our knees and hips and lower backs curse us as we continue down the hill. Crossing a beautifully built bridge we come to an intersection with a sign telling us we’re still 3.7 miles from the truck. Either that or it’s less than that if we go this way instead of that way. Or it could be more. Who knows? On we go.

At some point I guess I just black out because I don’t remember much else until we climb up onto Kendall Farm Road a little ways from where the truck is parked. I snap out of my trance at the sound of Tom's voice as he taunts me with Got anything left? which is what we like to say to each other when we know we’re less than a mile from the finish and one of us wants to race. I won't share all the details — some of what happens on the trail needs to stay on the trail. All I'm saying is that while I would prefer to beat him fair and square, I really need that head start. 

the first part

Section 1, July 4, 2017

The first section of the Catamount Trail is an abandoned railroad bed turned moss-covered and grassy, with occasional spikes and ties poking through the detritus and mud. We run 1.8 miles south of the “start” to tag the Massachusetts state line, then turn around and retrace the route that hugs the shoreline of the Sherman Reservoir. Shaded from the hot sun, we can see the bright blue water through the leaves.  Leaving the RR bed to parallel it, passing an ancient trestle, and then returning to the RR bed. Emerging from the woods and losing the trail. Climbing a steep hill in the wrong direction and asking a local for help. Turning around and running down the hill to the highway. Still not finding the trail but feeling our way through something that looks kinda right. Wrangling a rose bush. Climbing over and under debris. Finally finding the trail and bushwhacking our way through a tangle of side of the road opportunist weeds. Winding along the Deerfield River, the trail is mud, streams, and soft pine needle dirt. Emerging from the woods at our destination, Mia and I are surprised that it's over already. The first 8 miles are behind us. 

Section 2, July 5, 2017

This section skirts the Harriman Reservoir on the same ancient railroad bed. Just before entering the woods we find a broken robin’s egg lying on the few remaining strands of nest. Grateful for the shade from an 80 degree day, we are off to a good start. Well, almost. About a half mile in I realize I've left my keys (the ones we'll need at the end of our run today) in Mia's car. Okay then, off to a bit of a clunky start. But at least I remembered nice and early in the run. I shudder to think what we would have done if at the end of 10 miles we reached my car only to be locked out of it. Thank you whatever spirits were floating by in that moment for yelling at me about my forgotten keys! I leave Mia on the trail and retrace my steps to get my keys, and we are off again. Flat easy terrain along the edge of the reservoir. Dramatic rock cuts tunneling the passage of long ago trains. The long gentle river-grade trail becomes a service road. Perfect raccoon prints in the mud. Easy endless gliding strides bring us out at the northernmost end of Harriman Reservoir. Following the trail / road through the crowded public picnic area, we glide past people lounging and grilling and swimming and boating. Leaving the road to bushwhack through beaver and hay meadows, we make our way through grasses as high as my chest, carefully avoiding the poison parsnip. More bushwhacking through an old apple orchard. More grasses and pricker-laden berry bushes and very slow going. Climbing and dropping and following a power line. Discovering wild blueberries. Following the prints of deer who use this trail as easier travel. Emerging on a busy highway. Crossing a high bridge with cars flying impossibly fast. It's hard to imagine skiers navigating this part when the roads are winter-covered. But now we have reached the car and today's 10+ miles are complete. On a long run in remote wilderness, company is better than solitude. I am about to find this out on Section 3.

Section 3, July 6, 2017

Heidi joins me for the first mile or so. Glad for her company and enormously grateful for help with shuttling cars. It's an easy start: beautiful, grassy, gentle, and flat. Parallel to the highway and river it takes a little while for traffic sounds to fade and water sounds to gain. Soon I trade my easy run-all-day pace and forgiving dirt trails for slopping through the mud and waist high weeds. Things slow down. Pretty soon the trail climbs up into a beech stand and things begin to look more like the Catamount Trail I recognize from running around Ripton. And then things become darker, denser, and something changes. Subtle, indiscernible at first, but soon I am uneasy. The woods are closing in and I'm feeling some seriously bad joo-joo in here. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Holy hell I am so uncomfortable. But what can I do? I slow down a little, try to make a little more noise, push down the anxiety, keep the legs moving. Heebie jeebies wash over me, whisper in my ear, tap me on the shoulder. I keep going, having a conversation out loud with myself about the winding trail and a couple of broken bridges in need of repair and the mama bird I spooked that tries to distract me from her nest and now look, moose prints, and here are some berries that will be ripe in a couple of weeks. Past a couple of beaver ponds, through the hilly woods, taunted by the musty smells of forest life and my discomfort keeping pace alongside me. But little by little I am getting closer to the end of today's trek. I can see the sky opening up ahead as I approach the reservoir. Climbing out of the woods and there is my car at the south end of Somerset Reservoir. Today's 8 miles are done. 

Section 4, July 7, 2017

After much logistical chin scratching and brain yoga, I figure out that I will drive my car to the end of today’s run at Kelley Stand and then bike to the start where yesterday’s run ended at Somerset Reservoir. Then do the 10 mile trail run, drive back to the start to retrieve my bike, and head home. The bike ride is 14 miles on dirt forest service road 71. Mostly flat or downhill with a couple of gentle ups (but also a couple of miles of not so gentle ups). It takes awhile, longer than I thought it would, to bike this part. I find a tree off the beaten path and lock my bike to it, eat a little cashew butter, regroup, take a deep breath and head into the woods at an easy jog. The trail skirts the entirety of Somerset Reservoir. Most of it is frequently traveled so it doesn't look like I'll be doing much bushwhacking today.

I am hoping hard not to repeat my "Mole in the Wild Woods" experience of yesterday. Side streams feeding in from the east flow into the reservoir on my left. I get frequent and stunning glimpses of the open water and mountains beyond. Mosquitoes and deer flies swarm madly the couple of times I slow down or pause for photos or a pee or to pick my way through a tricky stream crossing. This section feels effortless and it's a relief to just focus on breathing and stride and bird song and blues and greens and the joy of being in the woods. I'm certainly feeling the demands of being Day Four into the challenge, but I’ve got some good flow. On I go. The miles fly by. Under two hours in, I enter the Grout Pond area. Many campers are quietly going about their morning rituals as I cruise past. Their presence energizes me. I know I am close to completing Section 4. The trail is easy here. Just humming along and feeling great. As suddenly as they appeared, the campsites begin to fade behind me and the CT becomes wild again as it branches north. The grasses and ferns are knee and thigh high here, but I am almost there. I can see the trail opening up and things brightening ahead and know I am close. Emerging from the woods onto Grout Pond Road I have just 1.8 miles to go to get to my car. One untied shoelace flapping. I trudge on. Legs and brain are fatigued but I feel great with the anticipation of completion. Up the hill, onto Kelley Stand Road, and I have arrived.

Re-entry July 8, 2017

Holy hell, re-entry is weird. This day is unexpectedly difficult. Arrived home last night tired but energized from my adventure. Today has been strange. I forgot to prepare myself for the bumps and downhill slide of returning to regular life. Especially as today is a rest day — much needed — but not necessarily welcome. I have been up up up and now… a slower pace and the reality of bills and weeding and laundry and returning calls and emails and a reminder that life has been going on as always while I’ve been in the woods. I miss my endorphins. I am struggling through this day, unable to find any kind of groove. Productive even so: laundry, unpacking, tidying up, cleaning. And the outdoors are calling: gardening, weeding, mowing. Still, nothing is quite right. The indecisive weather is not helping. It rains. The sun comes out. It gets hot. Oppressively humid. It clouds up. The temperature drops. It pours. The sun is out again. The weather is a mirror to my all over the place unsettledness.

Settling in July 9 & 10, 2017

Things on the home front are cool. I’m back in the swing of non-trail life again. I get a lot done at work. I'm remembering how this part of life works and that it's summer and there's so much to enjoy about being home. I have this great conversation with my friend Kate. I tell her about the Section 3 spooky woods experience. Kate lives in Tucson and knows a thing or two about the natives in her area. She tells me about the Tohono O’odham and their closeness with the land and their custom of giving thanks to the land for its many gifts. When things are unsettled or feel threatening, whether in the form of an animal threat or dangerous weather or what have you, they simply “talk to it.”  And offer blessings. Maybe just a little pinch of cornmeal thrown to the wind and a whisper of thanks. Not sure I'll have the presence of mind to remember it the next time I find myself inexplicably fearful in the woods, but I am suddenly madly in love with this concept.

Shitfuckdamn July 11, 2017

On my sweet little 4 mile trail run this morning, I zip along unburdened, enjoying a jolly and effortless pace. I know the trail well and remember the places to stop to eat a few wild blueberries. I do a little hill work for good measure and fly around corners and up hills. Pleasantly sweaty a mile from home on a no-brainer section of dirt road, something… happens. I still don’t know what. I must have stepped on a rock or onto the edge of an unnoticed pothole. My left ankle buckles and rolls violently. I’m floating along one second, and hobbling the next, releasing a blue streak of obscenities, bent over, hopping on my good right foot. What the actual hell? Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. In a few moments I realize I’m okay enough to put weight on it, okay enough to get myself home. But just like that, everything changes.

Dr. Mirkin’s 1978 recipe for RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation) — a protocol coaches and athletes have been following for years — is now out. He recently published a paper about how the first two components of RICE, rest and ice, can actually delay healing. Inflammation serves a purpose. When tissue is damaged, the body responds by sending microphages — immunity cells and proteins — to the traumatized area. The body receives the pain messages to slow down or stop, the area becomes inflamed, and the cells go to work. Our typical human response is to relieve that pain, maybe throwing an ice pack and an ibuprofen or two at it. Turns out, this is not helpful. It’s good for the pain, but not the healing. I am sidelined. And my happy little endorphin fix is the last one I’ll get for awhile.

I go about the rest of my day as best I can. Alternating between walking oh so gingerly and elevating. I have an appointment to give blood. I decide not to think about how long it might be before I can run again. Instead I will focus on the life-affirming act of handing over a pint of the good old universal O positive. My finger is pricked to check my hemoglobin and… I fail. Somehow, despite a diet consisting almost exclusively of red meat and leafy greens, I fall below the acceptable level of iron for blood donation today. This day is making me sad. I hold it together and march (okay, limp) bravely through the rest of today's to-do list. At least until Tom comes home. Then, because I can, and because I have been a very brave soldier all day, I fall apart. He helps me come up with a plan and some rehab exercises for sprained ankles and reminds me, sternly, 17 times, that this could very well mean I will not be running again for many days and probably a couple of weeks. No 10K race this Saturday. No Catamount Trail section 5 on Sunday. No Catamount Trail section 6 on Wednesday.

It’s embarrassing to admit to the level of despair I am feeling. Poor little white girl can’t go for her daily run. Boo-hoo. I am acutely aware of my privilege in this moment. That I can even conceive of an adventure like running the Catamount Trail in its entirety — that my needs are so well met that this can even enter my thought process as a personal goal to go after… this is privilege. Having first become aware of my white privilege in 1985 at St. Lawrence University, I am familiar with the feelings of guilt that come with it. I still don’t quite know what to do with it, but I think that's a post for another day. In the meantime, I am hearkening back to my conversation with Kate a couple of days ago. I think of the Tohono O’odham and how when things get dicey they just start talking with the thing that’s presenting a challenge. Engage in a conversation with it. Make friends somehow, or at least go gently eye to eye with it. And then sprinkle an offering its way and say thanks.

help

For the past couple of years I've been chewing on this idea of running the Catamount Trail — a cross country ski trail that runs the length of Vermont from the Massachusetts border to Canada. A few months ago I watched the documentary about Nikki Kimball, an endurance runner who set the record as being the fastest woman to run the length of the Long Trail. She inspired me to finally take the idea of running the Catamount and put it into action. Nikki was going for a speed record. I will not. Nikki is a sponsored endurance runner. I am not. Nikki has a support team that runs with her, sets up camp, keeps her hydrated, and reminds her to keep going when she'd rather pack it in. They take care of her feet. Her sponsors cheer. Then there's me. No one knows I'm doing this. Well, you do, because I just told you. But no one else knows. I will be running alone. I do have supportive friends and family members, many of whom were quick to give me the thumbs up "like" on this project and some of whom expressed support with a generalized let me know how I can help kind of response. (P.S., for future reference, this is very nice, but not helpful. You'll see why in a minute.)

Skiing the entire length of the CT gets you bragging rights as an “end-to-ender.” I think the Catamount Trail Association sends you a mug or something. But as far as I know no one has ever achieved end-to-end status by running it. Or if they did they kept quiet because it's a ski trail which is (sssshhhhh) technically "not open" in the summer months. If I'm being honest, this is part of the appeal. Am I breaking any laws? Will I get in trouble? What kind of shape is the trail in during summer months? Neck-high nettles? Impassable swamps? Lots of question marks, but this is part of what drives the adventure. Onward. So begins the planning. I figure, as a quasi-responsible adult who works full time with a couple of part time jobs on the side, it will take me 3 summers to complete the task. I mapped it out to run the first 10 sections (there are 31 in all) this summer.

Exciting stuff back in March and April, but now, with my start date fast approaching, I find myself in a state of anxiety wholly of my own making. I am flailing about in a sea of questions: What am I doing? Why am I doing this? How the hell am I going to pull this off? It’s not just the actual running part — I’ve been sticking to the training schedule. Aside from giving in to my guilty pleasures of Vermont cheddar and Fiddlehead, I actually feel reasonably prepared for the physical demands. It’s all the other stuff. The logistics. The nitty gritty of figuring out how to get myself dropped off at start points and/or picked up at end points. How do I ask someone to give up a sizable chunk of their day and put all those miles on their car to be pit crew on this hare-brained adventure?  All kinds of possibilities are presenting themselves to me as a way to avoid having to ask this of someone.

I could just run each section twice: I'd park at the start, run to the end of Section 1, turn around and run back to my car. Repeat with Section 2, etc. The fact that I’m seriously considering this as an option could be a strong indication that I’ve lost most of my marbles. The first section is 8 miles. So... math. That would be a 16 mile run. I’m not going for speed here. I’d be tired, but it’s doable. But that’s just Section 1. And the way I have this thing planned out right now, I’m trying to do the first 4 sections back to back 4 days in a row. That turns an 8 mile run into 16 on Day One, a 10 mile run into 20 on Day Two, a 7 mile run into 14 on Day Three, and an 8 mile run on Day Four into another 16 miler. More math... If I run the whole thing like this, I take a 300+ mile adventure and double it to over 600 miles. Hmmm.

Maybe I could just ask someone to help with shuttling cars.

Enter all the re-questioning about why the hell I’m doing this in the first place. Why do any of us do anything above and beyond survival? What’s it for? When it comes down to it, don’t we all just end up as dust or worm-food anyway? What does it matter what we toil away at all the live-long day? Why not just sit on the deck and enjoy Vermont cheddar and Fiddlehead? Bragging rights? No one cares. I mean of course they care. If they care about you then they care. But the world doesn’t care. The universe doesn’t care. All the shitty race and economic and political and climate problems are not going to get solved by me spending hours and hours and hours of my life running around in the woods trying not to get eaten by bears.

So not only am I not doing anything productive at all by embarking on this adventure, I’m asking people to give up their time to help me. They could be knitting hats for cancer patients if I hadn't asked them to spend the day in their car.

Except that I’m not asking. Because as it turns out, I can’t. I just can't bring myself to ask someone to do this for me when it has basically no purpose and serves no greater good and just feels, well, selfish. Even if I don't have to ask and help is just offered, saying yes to it is so. very. difficult. It generally does not feel good or even okay. Clearly I have issues. I suppose if I were donating a kidney, I could muster what’s needed to let someone drive me home after. But only because the favor of a ride home would be balanced out by having just donated an organ. 

Nope. I’ll figure it out on my own. A slightly less crazy idea emerges: I have a bike. I could drive to the end point of my run and leave my car there, then ride my bike back to the start, run the section back to my car, drive back to the start and get my bike.  This actually feels like a decent plan. It’d be like doing two-thirds of a triathlon. Cool. So now all I need to do is put air in the tires and make sure the gears work and I should probably get myself a bike lock and maybe see if I can find someone to loan me a bike rack. Oh and I guess I better get myself a helmet.

When things get hard, my patterned response is to work harder. Nothing wrong with that. It has served me rather well. I can get quite a bit done in 24 hours. I’ve developed a pretty kick ass work ethic along with some fierce independence and self-reliance. Oh, and also a crippling inability to delegate responsibility or lean on others. Or ask for help. Oh for the love of Pete. I have gone full circle and again, I remind myself that this entire thing is of my making. I hatched the plan. I have created this situation. Why? Why manufacture this summons to contest? Isn't life hard enough? Why do we humans so desperately need to challenge ourselves?

I am reminded of something I knew all along, but maybe forgot for a minute: I do it because I can. I am privileged to have two working legs, two working lungs, and just enough stability and security in my life to pause from the daily whatevers and go after this thing. We seek out challenges because there is great value in it. Sticking it out helps us evolve. It is empowering. Challenging ourselves keeps alive our fiery passions and fuels our creativity. Going for broke and breaking through boundaries is good for us and inspiring to others. New experiences keep us interesting and interested in the world. Getting through the hard stuff helps us figure out what we’re made of and helps us build resilience. It makes us a little better able to handle the unexpected spray of shit that will inevitably fly off the fan of life. When we struggle, it builds compassion and empathy. In a word, it makes us better. And the world really needs each of us to be the very best versions of ourselves.

So on that note, does anyone have a bike rack I can borrow?

f-words

Recently I was gently chided by a reader for some of my word choices. To be precise, she has noticed my fondness for dropping f-bombs and made the courageous choice to call me out on it. We’ll call her K. She has been reading my posts and, while overall her feedback has been embarrassingly complimentary, this time K wagged her finger at me a bit.

I actually had a feeling this might be coming.  You might be alienating potential readers. Yes, that might be true. You don’t need to pepper your stories with profanity. it’s good enough without it.    Well ...     And anyway, it’s not who you are. At this point I stopped her: actually, it IS who I am. Anyone who has ever worked out with me, shared a meal or had drinks with me, or really spent much time at all with me has undoubtedly noticed my enthusiasm for well-placed expletives. Writing this stuff (K, see how I said stuff that time instead of shit?) is truly an exercise in giving air time to the things bouncing around between my ears all day. And when I sit down to give voice to the thoughts, the irreverent rule-breaking bad word does just kind of slide off the palate. So, yes, the spicy language really is exactly who I am. My dad, listening in on the conversation, chuckled and chimed in with In other words kid, clean up your fucking language. He’s a funny guy. He’s also the one who told me It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission which might sound like pretty unconventional parenting advice, but I suppose that’s for another post.

K has a point though. She's very smart. I admire her. On more than one occasion I have sought her advice. When she speaks, I listen. Her comments definitely got me thinking. I do believe in the importance and power of packaging. Any message can be less effective or lost entirely if it’s delivered poorly. Anyone who has been in a relationship with another human being knows this. If you have children or work with children or have ever interacted with children, you know this. We adults know a thing or two about a lot of stuff. But kids know everything and they sometimes really would rather not listen to us because we clearly know nothing even though we’ve been on the planet awhile and they just got here. Then again, they might be right. Adults may be idiots. We still believe in the electoral college, for example.  Anyway, the point is we’ve all experienced the well-intentioned message that the recipient simply could not “hear” because it was hurled like a balled up pair of dirty socks aimed at the laundry basket across the room. It wasn’t what you said, it was how you said it. Packaging matters. Yes. Got it.

I know the power of language as a coach too, and the potential efficacy of throwing in the spicy word now and then. I like to think I’m scrupulous about picking the proper moments to use non-church words with my players. Never directed at them. Used selectively. Always at a conservative volume. Never in anger. Not gratuitous. Only to make a point. Know your demographic. Etc. In my 23 years of coaching, I’ve only had one end-of-season evaluation in which a player said I swore too much. Not a proud moment for me, I admit, when I read that one. But I’m pretty sure I only said fuck once or twice in front of my team that whole season. Okay, maybe five or six times. It’s not like I’m counting.

Then again, this writing thing is a bit of a journey and I’m not convinced the safest route is the best. I could easily offend someone by referring to my long Sunday trail runs in the Green Mountains as my church. I just dissed the electoral college a minute ago. I think you should be able to marry whoever you choose. Hell, marry your goat!  I also don’t give a rat’s ass which bathroom you use as long as you don’t try to use the same toilet I’m sitting on at the time. Feel free to worship at the altar of Abraxas or Holy Breast Milk if you want to. How many of you have I alienated now? But that’s not really the point. This is not about shock value. Writing is not about alienating people or not alienating people. It’s about living and the human experience and putting stuff out there and connecting and working it all out in real time. It can be dangerous. I think it’s supposed to be at least a little bit risky. But I don’t really know. I don’t have an editor. I don’t even know who my readership is. (Who my readership are? See… the perils of having no editor…)

What I am counting on is that my occasionally vulgar choice of words are embedded in enough savvy humor that those who might be offended can survive the experience mostly unscarred with just a wince or two and that those of you who like it edgy will find something to like. And, if nothing else, a brief foray into whatever the hell I wrote this time will at the very least do no harm and might even provide a couple of minutes respite from whatever keeps you awake in the middle of the night.

trail magic

Yesterday’s after school activity was to accompany my pal Mia and her stepson Oakley on a jaunt up Robert Frost Mountain. They were on a mission to deliver what is known in the hiking world as Trail Magic to the cabin at Skylight Pond off the Long Trail. The idea here is that we folks who spent the previous night in our warm beds and had a hot shower and were able to brush our teeth with running water this morning get ourselves deep into the woods and then leave delicious goodies for tired, grubby, gaunt, and hangry hikers who’ve been on the trail for 3 weeks (or in this case a group of middle schoolers who’ve been on the trail for about half a day, but still.)  It’s like doing a few extra pushups or crunches for your karma — a not too painful fun little workout that you get to feel good about later. It’s like paying the toll for the guy in the car behind you who you will never see again. For those of us who tend to think and re-think and chew on and overanalyze, stumbling upon opportunities for random acts of kindness is like a way to rub out a few of the black marks on the soul. It's possible I'm being dramatic. I probably don’t really have black marks on my soul. I’ve never murdered anyone or beaten a child or committed a felony. I suppose I probably just have a few brown spots — like when I have a mean thought about someone I figure that leaves a maybe raisin or date-sized nugget I need to do a few good deeds to remove.

I tend to think it’s at this point if you are still reading you are cleanly standing in one of two camps: some of you are thinking whoa, she’s bat shit bonkers and needs to calm the fuck down about stuff and probably do more therapy while those of you in the other camp are thinking yep, inner karmic tally sheets tracking every almost not nice thing I almost did once — totally get it.

So up the mountain we went, traipsing through trout lilies and trillium and what Mia called “spring beauties” which I’m pretty sure she made up the name for on the spot. It’s spring. They’re beautiful. I buy it. Mia and Oakley carried packs full of chocolate bars and bottles of wine and fresh bread and other goodies. I showed up empty-handed. Not exactly a great start to my karmic workout. But, I was full of good cheer and ready for a good run. Because they were carrying packs and I wasn’t, I found myself pulling ahead and was soon alone with my thoughts, preoccupied with figuring out where to put my feet and noticing how the trail was gradually changing from dry to damp to wet to soggy to slushy to snowy as we climbed. Oakley worked a conservative pace from the back playing it safe and, in his words, making sure not to “fall and hurt myself.”  If you know Oakley, you can appreciate the hilarity of this comment because for the past couple of decades, Oakley has been basically hurling himself off cliffs for a living. (Google or youtube him and see for yourself: Oakley White Allen. Yes, do it right now. You’re welcome.)

Years ago Mia and I did this same hike as an overnight with our pre-teen daughters. It’s cushy camping in a primitive well-built lodge so no need to carry a tent or tarp or other stuff. It’s practically car camping. Just whatever you’re willing to carry up a mountain for a couple of miles on your back: sleeping bags and pads and decks of cards and headlamps and good snacks. But it’s also off the Long Trail, so you have to assume you’re going to share the cabin with through hikers. Mia was prepared. We got ourselves settled with headlamps and started dealing cards. Who knows whatever the hell I brought. None of us will ever remember because Mia had fresh strawberries and whipped cream — the real, homemade kind — which survived the hike just fine. A few feet away were a couple of through hikers who hadn’t seen running water or a fresh vegetable in a few weeks. Mia and I were passing a bottle of wine back and forth and offered to share. Their eyes lit up. Mia reached in her bag and pulled out chocolate. Their eyes grew very wide and they practically wept. Wine and fresh fruit and chocolate. Simple treats anywhere else, but miles from home in the woods it is good, simple, karma building Trail Magic.

finch

One of my side jobs is house-sitting. Yes, I have a meaningful full-time job filing papers and making photocopies in an elementary school, but I also have a kid in college and expensive taste in beer so I pick up part time work on the side. Things like house-sitting and cleaning houses and landscaping and selling cards —  all the secret income FAFSA never gets to know about. If you had to google FAFSA just now, then you live in a completely different world and very little I say is likely to resonate with you, so probably you should just click on the cards for sale part of my website, place your big order, and get back to whatever it was you went on the internet to do in the first place.

This week (April break) Vermonters with kids in school often say To hell with this long drawn out winter and mud season — we’re heading to the beach!, and then they leave me in charge of their homes and pets. I love house-sitting, which might sound strange because I am actually very happily married and miss my husband when we’re not together. But it might also be the ticket to our happy marriage —  voluntary temporary separation. The truth is, it gives him a break from me to live like a bachelor for a few days. Dirty plates in the sink, piles of newspapers, napping on the couch with his hand down his pants, doing whatever the hell it is he does with guns and tools in the basement, and me, quietly absent and conspicuously not nagging. Plus, then I have cash to buy quality beer which makes us both happy.

Finch is a Labradoodle I’m taking care of this week. He has more energy than a squirrel on amphetamines. He is cream-colored and loves, more than anything, finding mud. And for some reason I haven’t been able to read a single thought in his head. This is unusual. I can usually assign a voice to a dog and have a full-on narrative going within a few minutes.  But Finch is silent. Completely mute. No voice, no narrative, just… wind in the trees. It’s fine, I have enough confusing internal dialogue going on in the swirling chaos between my ears that I’m glad for the respite from additional noise in my head.

House-sitting is fun, especially when dogs are involved. I get to swoop in as the merry, thrill-seeking aunt who takes them on wild adventures and makes them fall in love with me, forgetting all about their regular boring family. But Finch. I may have met my match with Finch. I start the day with a run. Depending on where we go, he is leashed (on the road) or not (on the trails). Leashed means he does all the work and pulls me along and I pound out something more like a 7 or 8 minute mile as opposed to my usual pokey 10 or 11.  Unleashed means I watch him cover four times my distance as he simply sprints wherever his nose tells him to, dog-smiling at me as he passes.

After an hour or two of this, I stagger back to the house with him, chug a couple liters of water, and try to catch my breath. He looks at me wondering what’s next. He is not even panting. I find a tennis ball and initiate a game of fetch. He does the equivalent of about 20 hill sprints and then tires of the game —  not physically, mind you, just mentally or emotionally or something —  and goes off to smell things in the woods and find sticks to chew. Eventually he comes over and thoughtfully sits on top of me so I can more easily pet him. This lasts about 20 seconds and then he is off again.

The other day we had just started on a run when I came upon an inviting old logging road with a gate (not for me, of course) which Finch and I were able to easily go under. So up the “road” we went. It soon became a tangled mess of abandoned logging roads / river beds / swampy pricker bush swaths.  In case you don’t know, when you take a section of woods and log the hell out of it, it makes a horrible fucking mess. Even if you do it well. Because loggers aren’t trail runners and they aren’t thinking about leaving it nice for the next guy. They’re thinking about getting the dang trees on the truck and the money in the bank. (That makes it sound like a don’t like loggers — not true. I like the ones I’ve met. They’re outdoorsy and chiseled and hard-working and they smell like cut wood which is one of my favorite smells.)  Messy or not, I was committed to this adventure. I couldn’t stomach turning around and putting Finch back on the leash and running on the road. So on we went, slogging through the muddy schizophrenic network of old logging roads until the last one just… ended. But, Finch and I were almost to the top of an inviting ridge with lots of tumble-down rocks that beckoned:  climb us… see what’s on the other side of us…  

Years ago, Tom and I invented what has become our hiking motto and a (probably foolhardy) philosophy of life to which we sort of aspire: when in doubt, plunge headlong into the woods. I looked at Finch for his thoughts. He stared at me silently. Clearly I was in charge of this adventure and if he had an opinion he was keeping it to himself. Hell. It’s vacation week. I don’t have anywhere else I have to be for the next few hours. I forgot water (again) and no one knows where we are, but when in doubt …  Let’s go Finch.

Several hours later we came out on a road, I leashed Finch and then muddy, scraped, bleeding, and thirsty as hell, we ran the last few miles home. Surely by now I’ve worn out this dog. I figured I did a hell of a good job today. We got home, I cleaned him up (did I mention this off-white dog's affinity for mud?) and stood back, crossing my arms with satisfaction of a job well done, picturing how cute he will look when he stretches out and falls asleep. It's looking like I may never find out.

untying the knot

Tom and I are empty nesters now, so Saturdays typically mean some sort of epic all day adventure in the woods. Sometimes it means literally walking out our front door and into the Green Mountain National Forest and returning many hours later. Other times it means getting in the car and driving to some other part of the state or over to the Adirondacks to explore something a little bit outside of our fire district.

Yesterday we made yet another attempt at bagging Mt. Mansfield. Two hours after leaving the house we were still, maddeningly, in the car. Damn google maps. The original plan to ascend the western slope from the trailhead on Stevensville Rd in Underhill was scrapped as we found ourselves passing Bolton Valley and well on our way to Waterbury. There is a country store in Waterbury that has a wall full of maps outside on the porch. Free. We now own a map of Vermont. In case you are a millennial or younger, I’ll explain:  a map is a large piece of paper marked with roads and towns and other useful information. It folds handily into a pocket or glove compartment. It’s something people of my generation would — twenty years ago — occasionally use to figure out how to get from point A to point B. Smart phones and Siri had not yet been invented. And some of us are hold-outs. (My flip phone cost me $9 and I use it to make an occasional phone call. Tom does not have a cell phone.) You could argue that this is idiotic. We spent half a day needlessly making wrong turns Siri could have saved us from. Then again, getting lost can make things more interesting if you keep your sense of humor about it. For example, we never would have seen the person in the Easter Bunny suit dancing and waving to us if we had gone the way we intended. But I digress. I haven’t even mentioned the knot in my stomach yet, so here’s that part.

As we were just about to walk out the door, the phone rang. Normally I’d dodge the call and just close the door behind me, not wanting anything to delay our adventure. But this time I answered. It was Hannah, telling me she was on her way home to visit for the weekend. I explained we were heading out and would be gone all day. She was disappointed but not adequately prepared to meet us for the hike, so we agreed she’d just delay coming home and we’d see her tonight. Sounds benign and friendly enough, yes? But if you’re me, this exchange sits in the pit of the stomach, leaking guilt and self-doubt. Did I really just selfishly stick to the plan of hiking all day instead of spending the day with my kid who I only see once a month or so? Yes. I did.

The acorn sized knot of guilt spent the next 2 hours (thanks to us getting lost because of my bad directions) growing to the size of a softball while I sit in the passenger seat and count the myriad ways I have already fallen short today. At one point I ask Tom, what’s it like not to be riddled with guilt about everything all the time?  Because I’ve now added to the list that not only did I pick exercise over seeing my kid, I have also done exactly zero things to prepare for Easter which admittedly is a holiday that means nothing to me except dying eggs and hunting for them as a child, and then continuing that tradition with our own kids when they were little. But now that they are out of the house I think I am done with that and didn’t purchase a single chocolate anything or even think about having things to hide or baskets to give to my grandchildren. It seems absolutely without a doubt clear to me that this is someone else’s responsibility now, not mine. Until we get within 24 hours of the holiday and now I am filled with regret and self-doubt. Tom says Well, people like you a lot more than they like me. Which is a sweet and clever response, is probably not even remotely true, and only just makes me wish I could just decide one way or the other — I either do the holidays, or I don’t. Pick one, commit to it, and get on with things. Sometimes being me is kind of a train wreck. Tom describes me as “complicated.”

It is 66 degrees and sunny as we stand at the tailgate of the truck and prepare to head out. Almost 1:00 and we’re departing on a hike of unknown duration, a two-hour drive from home. The guy emerging from the woods is wearing shorts and we can see that his legs are covered in bloody scrapes. He's drenched in sweat. We nod hello. He glances at the snowshoes in our hands and comments that we'll be glad we have those. All the way up the mountain we see where he's postholed knee and sometimes hip deep. 

I am determined to make the most of the adventure in spite of that sizable knot in my belly which has been tightening with each passing wrong turn and unnecessary traveled mile. I hate inefficiency. I abhor being stuck inside on a beautiful day. I can’t stand the feeling of letting anyone down.  But I put these things behind me because we are packed up and trudging up the road toward the Long Trail. We have our snowshoes. We have snacks. The sun is shining. Things are looking up. 

The route we’ve chosen as our Plan B is shorter but my oh my, is it steep. Described as a 40% grade for about a mile and a half, it’s like hiking just the very steepest part of Mt. Abe for a couple of hours. Straight up the side of the mountain, on top of so much pack that sometimes the white blazes are just a few inches above the snow. And I am noticing that when the legs get pumping and the heart starts beating harder and the blood is flowing all of these things work together to begin untying the knot. My focus shifts to feeling that I’m not the world’s worst mom and Nonie (my grandkids’ name for me) and that everything is going to be okay.

As we climb up and out of the tree line we can look down on the village of Stowe, the surrounding peaks, over to Lake Champlain and beyond to the towering Adirondacks and acres and acres of uninhabited forests over the three states and two countries we can see from this spot. Zooming in on the closer view, the exposed rock on Mt. Mansfield’s Adam’s apple and Chin are covered with startlingly beautiful alpine lichen which, incredibly, has been growing for hundreds (thousands? millions?) of years at the rate of a couple of millimeters a year. The knot loosens some more.

To complete the task of fully untying the knot, I find myself in a position requiring 100% of my focus for the task at hand: not sliding off the alarmingly narrow spiny ascent of The Chin. Hand over hand, jamming the toe of my snowshoe into the snow, inch by terrifying inch. Out of the corner of my left eye I see the tops of tiny alpine trees peeking out of the snow and an impossibly long open slope. Out of the corner of my right eye just a few feet of snow and then the edge. I almost made it, but raw mortal fear and a desire to live for one more day won out. On my hands and knees, I tagged a lichen-covered boulder just 50 yards from the summit with my heart clanging so hard in my chest I thought I might cry. Some other day maybe.

living

Exactly one year ago, I was getting my bags packed in preparation for a two-week adventure out west. Now that I think about it, that's probably not true. Knowing me, I'd been mostly packed for a week already. It's more likely that I was already packed and was quietly freaking out about the fact that I was about to get on airplanes. Traveling agitates me. Determined to travel light I was bringing just the essentials. Jeans. A couple of t-shirts. Running sneakers. A warm layer. Art supplies. A camera. An empty journal.

The journey began on April 7th, 2016 when I flew from Burlington to Phoenix. Actually, the journey began when my daughter Hannah went to Tucson two years prior to do an internship with Kate and Ted at the Land with No Name (http://www.thelandwithnoname.net). But that's her story to tell. 

What I can tell you is that being in Arizona and surrounded by the art and beauty of the place inspired Hannah to reach out to many of my friends and relatives and ask them secretly to help send me on this amazing western adventure. She presented me with the trip on my birthday, and for 8 months I looked forward to it, imagined it, planned for it, dreamed of it. One year ago tonight, I was about to launch.

In Sedona I hiked on my own through stunning beauty from sun-up to sun-down for two days. Rusty red sand and rock formations that don't make sense. The huge sky. Endless trails. The occasional worry of running into a mountain lion. The bigger worry of not having time to fit it all in. Take a New Englander and send her west in April and you begin to understand the delicious draw of a western sun and the thirsty pale skin which can barely handle it. It was all I could do to not hike naked.

In the fascinating city of Tucson I met up with Kate and Ted — the coolest, most charming and intriguing artists and best tour guides this rural Vermonter could hope for.  They are working hard to piece together a life that is rich with artistic pursuits and interesting human connections. Southwest desert flowers were just budding when I arrived and in full bloom on the day I left. I saw rattlesnake, horned toad, saguaro, prickly pear, ocotillo, and The Dusty Chaps — quite possibly the most eclectic collection of musicians and storytellers all on stage at one time. I was fortunate enough to stay in Kate's studio on Convent Ave., surrounded by inspiring art, architecture, and history. The neighborhood is quiet, sweet and beautiful — a humbly renovated Mexican community that has kept all the best parts of its original culture, architecture, and aesthetics.

In Colorado I had a mixture of snowy and sunny adventures with EB & Grace, Jenny, and my fabulous hiking companion Ruby the Dog. This time of year the bark of a ponderosa smells exactly like a butterscotch candy, and crickets — a sound I associate with August in Vermont — were everywhere. I was reminded that April in Colorado can mean 2 feet of snow followed by sun so strong it burns your skin in an hour. A 24-hour period in Colorado requires gallons of water. Boulder is the athletic capital of the world — hikers, runners, bikers, triathletes, endurance and mountain runners, and champion micro beer drinkers. Pure inspiration and humility from the minute the sun breaks through the steam rising from my coffee cup until many hours later when having sucked every morsel from the day, I watch it dip below the horizon through the bottom of my pint glass. Living in Boulder is living. Reconnecting with friends and with my fun, happy, positive self filled me with gratitude.

A typical day looked something like this: Wake up. Drink damn good coffee. Go for a run. Plan a hike. Pack up and head out. Photograph everything. Make some art.  Go for another hike. Make some more art.  Eat really good Mexican food. Taste local beer.  Sleep.  Repeat. In short, I spent 17 days squeezing every drop out of the day and living the wise words of my dear old dad: You're never too old for a happy childhood. 

bumps

When I was 29, I lost my husband to cancer. Months later, I remember being in the locker room at the gym and listening to women complain endlessly about how their husbands didn’t ever remember to do this fill in the blank thing or were forever doing this other fill in the blank annoyance no matter how many times they were nagged to do and not do the things. I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. Their men were driving them crazy, yes, but they were ALIVE. On the planet. Right now. These women were lucky and they didn’t realize it. I vowed never to be that person —  the wife in the locker room who complained about her husband not putting his dishes in the dishwasher or leaving his socks on the living room floor. I have since remarried, and I’m sorry to report that I am, indeed, that heinous whiny person in the locker room. I do complain. And what’s worse, I know better.

My husband is on a quest to be a better man (his words, not mine). Obviously I am enthusiastically in favor of this. To be fair, he is already a good man. The basic non-negotiables can be checked off: doesn’t smoke, worships the ground I walk on, makes me laugh. Check, check, and check. But  I definitely do more stuff like keeping the animals and children alive, preventing the house from collapsing under dust bunnies and clutter, waging war against the garden weeds, these kinds of things. Tom will do anything I ask, but I do have to ask. He suffers from a certain kind of blindness when it comes to piles of newspapers, dirty rugs, and clutter.  

Even though our relationship is not equal in terms of sharing the burden sometimes, I’m pretty sure I still get the better end of most things. For example, early in our relationship we agreed that when we set down our beers on the kitchen counter, become distracted, and then lose track of whose is whose, whichever one is more full is always mine. If he suggests something and I’m not for it, we generally don’t do it. If I suggest something and he’d kind of rather not, we still are probably going to do it. When we hit bumps in the relationship, he generally takes the blame and works hard to make things right. I am free to call him on his shortcomings and complain about them to him. He tells me I am perfect and that I have no faults. So you see, not so equal.

This morning I decided to maybe not be such a horrid nag for once, and maybe I would just do something else instead. What if instead of being bitter and irritated by the stuff he wasn’t doing, I brought my attention to the things he was doing? What if I decided each thing was an act of love, a kindness toward me, or a contribution to our household or family. Here’s what I noticed today:

Shared his breakfast with me

Fed the chickens

Sharpened a hatchet and made some kindling

Made a fire in the wood stove

Turned off the light in the kitchen

I will try not to dwell on the fact that I do exponentially more stuff considerably more consistently and rarely get acknowledgement or a thank you for it. (Note: I did not say “never.”) I am resisting the urge to compare our lists. (Filled, ran, and emptied the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen, started a meal in the crock pot, brought in wood, did a load of laundry, swept, tidied up.) A good friend once told me comparisons are odious. I haven’t read Lydgate’s Debate between a horse, a goose, and a sheep — arguably the original source of the saying — but I think I get the gist. Comparing Tom’s list to mine takes the focus off the thing that matters more and places it on the thing that matters less. It’s not a competition — if it was I would be seriously kicking his ass. The important thing is not that I am winning. (I’m winning!) The important thing is that when I focus on his list of things and think of them as acts of love I like him more. I feel better about things. And the bumps don’t feel so, well, bumpy.

fear

I spend a lot of time tromping about in the woods by myself. It's not that I don't have good playmates. I do. But going alone holds a strong appeal. I like solitude. It suits me. I have noticed that some people are startled by the notion of my choosing to go solo. Sometimes I’m out there for 4 or 5 hours at a stretch, which can get you pretty deep into the woods around here. They are nervous about my safety: What if something happens out there? Aren’t you afraid? The answer for me is generally No. And also, Yes. A healthy fear and respect for the wild is a good thing. We've all heard enough true stories with very sad endings to remember that the difference between everything being fine and dandy and everything going horribly wrong can actually just be one wrong step. Literally placing your foot on the ground in the wrong way. One moment of imperfect judgment. One bad decision. Taking a wrong turn. Not bringing enough water. Forgetting an extra layer of clothing. Out there things can get mightily fucked up in an instant. Mostly you pack up and go and it’s all just fine, but yes, it’s risky. Then again, so is getting in the car and driving to the grocery store. Statistically I’m much more likely to be incapacitated or wiped out completely behind the wheel of my car than to meet with my final unknown surrounded by swaying pines on a spiny ridge in the Green Mountain National Forest. What was it Bilbo or Frodo or Gandalf said? Going out your door is dangerous business.

There is just about always a moment in any outing when my heart skips a beat or two and I feel the fear. Sometimes it’s when I round a corner and spot a large dark shape in the woods and it takes me a moment to realize it’s only a harmless stump or boulder or shadow. A few days ago I was descending from the Skylight Pond trail when in my peripheral vision I saw a dark undulating movement about 75 yards away. I froze, my heart clanging around in my rib cage. I instantly thought: fisher cat. About the right size, about the right shape, about the right color, moving in about the right way. Whatever it was, it disappeared quickly and I took a breath to remind myself that critters out there — even potentially dangerous ones —have no interest in running into me either. Many years ago, hiking in Glacier National Park with my brother, we came upon a still steaming pile of grizzly poo, right in the middle of the trail. Vermont black bears are one thing, but a Montana grizzly is something else entirely. We simultaneously desperately wanted and desperately didn’t want to see one.

Sometimes fear just slips into your back pocket, unnoticed at first. Just this past week, breaking trail on a snowy section of the Long Trail, I found myself in a place I didn’t recognize. It took me quite awhile to find the white blazes again. This happened a few times that day. I have a reliable sense of direction, enough grains of common sense, and decent problem-solving skills, so it usually doesn’t take me too long to find the trail again if I lose it. But there is a very specific length of time within which I need to find my way, or concern turns to agitation which brings on the pin pricks of panic. A certain amount of fear can keep you safe, but crossing the line into panic is not only counter-productive, it can be dangerous. I knew I needed to keep that shit in check. I think when fear first begins to speak, it needs to get just a little bit of air time. Let it be heard, for just a moment, but don’t let it take center stage and run the show. I was more than halfway through a 4 hour hike, so the idea of turning around and following my tracks out, while off-putting, was still certainly an option. I wasn’t really facing peril. The chirps of panic were quieted for the moment.

One day in July my husband and I set out for a long trail run. Three quarters of an hour into it we stopped and looked at each other quizzically. What the hell? What sounded like a dump truck speeding down a nearby dirt road turned out to be a violent hail storm coming right at us. It came on so quickly we barely had time to react. Trees were toppling around us as we sprinted up the trail. I was terrified. Tom (who — in case you don’t know him — is kind of a lunatic) had this huge grin on his face as he yelled and maniacally egged-on the storm. There is a thing that happens in the body when faced with danger. A biological imperative which served us well in our cave-man days of hunting and being hunted. It’s the fight or flight response. Adrenaline is pumped through our bodies to give us a prodigious infusion of extra strength and energy. Suddenly we are able to do things we didn’t know we could do. The same chemistry that helped early Neanderthals outrun or fend off a sabre-tooth tiger 10,000 years ago helped Tom and me maneuver ourselves to relative safety through a swath of falling trees in that violent summer storm. I guess you could also argue it’s the same stuff that makes me have an anxiety attack at a flea market. Not so useful in that case.

Here’s the thing though. The body has to deal with all that extra adrenaline after the danger has passed. It has done its job and it is now time for it to vacate the premises. And in case this has never happened to you, I’ll tell you: the leftover adrenaline in your body does not go away politely. It does not just quietly get re-absorbed by the body while you catch your breath or tie your shoe or move on to whatever is next. When you’re done with that massive adrenaline dump, your body wants it out of you. Now. I found this out that day near the top of Moosalamoo, and every few miles the whole way home. Have you ever wondered where certain sayings come from? Like, Whoa that scared the shit out of me! Well, wonder no more.

I think the trick is in making the distinction between fear which is useful versus fear which is not. Useless fear engenders restless bed tossing and fretting about death, taxes, climate change, the next Supreme Court appointment. Important things to care about, yes. But fear can take a dry matchstick of worry and ignite it into a middle of the night inferno of distress. (Which, p.s., can render us entirely useless the next day, so now we are not only worried but too exhausted to do anything helpful.) Useful fear, on the other hand, keeps us mortal sacks of skin intact and here on the planet to do our good work as long as possible. Useful fear helps us to put on a helmet, buckle our seatbelt, cross that river with care, stay focused when descending an icy peak. It is said that courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to proceed in fear’s presence. No matter what scares us (flea markets, hiking alone, politics, jumping out of a plane), we all need courage to put one foot in front of the other, do it anyway, fight our fights, right our wrongs, and every day keep answering Mary Oliver’s question: What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?