Like That

I just knew I needed her this morning. The logging road can always be counted on to provide whatever is needed for the day and my heart.

Yesterday was just one of those days. A tough loss for my team. Knowing someone’s heart was hurting. Technical difficulties…All Day. Long. A knee replacement surgery looming. Concern for our country and the rocky-no-matter-what road ahead for all of us who love her. And spirits that felt like the smokey haze obscuring the mountain from view. Bed sounded good long before it was time to crawl in.

Despite all of that, one thing, well two, that I knew for sure. A new day would dawn, and a trip up the logging road would help.

A new day dawned, and before the sun crested the hills above the logging road we set out, side-by-side to make our way to the top, our steps falling together on the steep incline that will continue for almost two miles. It’s never easy, but today it’s a little harder than usual. Over the past four years of hiking this same path time and again, I’ve come to know that hard isn’t a bad thing, simply a thing. On or off the trail, hard is part of the bargain.

Today, like every day, the logging road is able to take whatever burdens we carry, always providing solid ground beneath our feet. She’s steady. Sure. Reliable. I want to be like that.

The trees on either side of the road bear witness as we pass by. Douglas and grand fir, ponderosa pine, and Oregon white oak. Rooted in the ground and stretching to the sky, they don’t question or try to fix. They simply stand strong, inviting us to come as we are. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just real. I want to be like that.

Sitting on the side of the hill, looking out over the woods, open grassy slopes, and surrounding ridges, the breeze moves around us, rustling the leaves and causing wheat colored grasses to sway ever so slightly. The air ia soft, warm, and gentle It feels like mercy, grace, kindness, and forgiveness. Freely given, asking nothing in return. I want to be like that.

Making our way down, my heart is lighter, my head more clear, and my spirit more at ease. The road hasn’t done anything to me, she’s simply been there for me, and that is what makes all the difference.

I want to be like that.

The Reprieve

The hike up the logging road is just that. An uphill climb the entire 1.7 miles to the top, with two exceptions. The reprieve and the wee-prieve.

The reprieve is a short span at the top of one of the steeper pitches that flattens out for about 200 feet, and the wee-prieve, the offspring of the reprieve, might be 50 feet if that. So out of the approximately 9000 feet of road, only 250 feet are flat. Everything else is up, up, up, and then up some more. So those few feet of flat ground matter. They are the only ones where one can catch her breath, feel her heart rate slow, and gather her energy to finish the climb.

Those brief respites are so small in comparison to the rest of the road, we could be on the other side of them without even noticing the relief and support they offer. It would be easy to miss them, so we make sure that we don’t. Every time we come to them we notice them, name them, thank them, and let them work their magic on us. Some days we need them more than others, but they are always a welcome interlude on the way to the top.

What is true on the logging is true in life. We are in need of the reprieves that show up in our daily lives. Those moments, no matter how brief, can make all the difference in helping us to keep on keeping on with the keeping on that is ours to do. A cancelled appointment? A reprieve giving you a slice of time you didn’t know you needed. A toddler immersed in his imagination as he pours water on the counter to see where it flows? A wee-prieve for you to notice the look of joy on his face that comes from trying stuff out. With a little imagination, even a traffic jam can be a reprieve. Seen one way, that long line of cars is just another pain in the ass inflicted on us. But seen through the lens of the reprieve? It can mean a little more time in the car to listen to that podcast or book, review your upcoming meeting, reflect on a conversation worth revisiting, or simply let your mind wander until traffic picks up again. That rare morning when your little one sleeps in? Some unexpected moments to do with as you wish, whether that be to work, have another cup of coffee, catch up on your own sleep, or putter in the garden. Someone needing time to process before being ready to engage in a respectful and meaningful conversation? Yep. A reprieve that might even save us from our lizard brain reactions. Even our breath can be the tiniest of reprieves. If we pay attention to it.

Reprieves are invitations to rest, if even for a moment, and yet they are so easily missed.

Let’s not miss them.

Let’s notice them, name them, thank them, and let them work their magic on us.

The Reprieve

The Wee-Prieve

On Holy Ground

Yesterday morning we parked in our usual spot at the bottom of the hill. Getting out of the car, I put on my pack, lengthened my trekking poles, and was ready for another trip to the top of the logging road. Uncertain of what the trip up - and down - would feel like given a recent, but unspecified, injury to my right knee, I waited uneasily for Tom to lock the car and join me.

I have no idea what I did to that knee, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Swelling, pain, instability. That kind of not good, and our upcoming hike into the crater at Mt. St. Helens in two weeks was looming especially large in my soul that morning. The hike is no small thing. 10 miles round trip over uneven terrain, some gnarly trails and boulders, no shade, and plenty of elevation gain, a girl wants to be able to put her best almost 70-year-old knee(s) forward. Not to mention the fact that Tom is the geologist who will accompany those who have paid a pretty penny for this bucket list trip, and I want to keep up with his almost 76-year-old knees.

I have the never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege of easy access to incredible healthcare, including a stellar physical therapist. Working with her, icing and elevating my knee, self-massage, targeted stretching and exercises, things were improving. But still…

Tom walked up with a look I’ve come to recognize. It is a look that signals his certainty for what is called for in that particular moment. Bending down, he laid both hands on that troubled right knee. And prayed. Out loud. For strength and healing and ease.

And then we headed up the hill.

And it felt good.

His wasn’t a “name it and claim it prayer” for which tele-evangelists are famous, and sometimes go to jail for. It wasn’t a plea for divine intervention. It was simply an acknowledgement of the sacred in the midst of our everyday lives. Of a Loving Presence that is greater than we can possibly imagine and closer than we will ever know.

His quiet words, spoken out loud, were a reminder that wherever we are, we are standing on holy ground.

Mt. St. Helens—Into The Crater Hike—2019

(Stay tuned for 2023)

Endorphins

It was really hard work this morning as we made our way up the logging road. It’s a steep1.7 mile uphill climb all the way from where park to the top. Hiking it twice a week, it’s our way of training to get stronger. It’s always hard at the beginning as our bodies adjust to the effort. Some days it gets easier as we make our way to the top, other days not so much. This morning was one of those not-so-fucking-much times. With the end in view, we pushed hard for the last 50 yards or so. I sounded a lot like Roy Kent from Ted Lasso as I growled his favorite word with every step.

Head on the stump at the top, I caught my breath, and then gulped down some water. Looking at my watch, we’d shaved another minute off of our time. No wonder it was hard.

And then it happened.

The flood of those magic endorphins that follow vigorous exercise showed up. These miraculous chemicals trigger a positive feeling in the body and brain. It’s like Ellen Degeneres is doing her happy dance on my inner stage.

The thing about endorphins, from my experience, is that they only show up when I’ve exerted myself to the point of it being hard. To get stronger I have to push myself beyond what is comfortable. But those damn endorphins feel so damn good that it’s worth working that damn hard to have them flood me with their silly goodness.

What is true on the logging road is true in life.

Stretching past my comfort zone is where the magic happens. In every aspect of life, the only way I know to grow and get stronger is to stretch a little more, reach a little higher, dive a litter deeper, and risk a little more.

It may be hard at the time, but it’s totally worth it.

One At A Time

Every time I’m out on the trail I am reminded that the life we have is directly under our feet. Not a mile down the road. Not a mile behind us. Not behind that tree or over that hill or under that rock or around that bend. It’s right here. There is nowhere else for it to be, because life only happens one step at a time.

Real life is a messy mixture of the good, the bad, and the seriously ugly. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy wishing that I could have those served up one at a time. Just a heaping helping of goodness without having to make room on my plate for the bad, the ugly, the painful, the frightening, and even the awful that will inevitably land on my plate too. So rather than digging into the delicious, yummy good right when it happens, I’m already stabbing my fork into whatever else might get dished up, but hasn’t yet. It’s like those times when I’ve eaten a delicious meal that was prepared with love and care, and before I knew it my plate was empty and I had no idea what the food even tasted like. I’d missed the meal set before me that would have given me the joy, resilience, and strength meant to sustain me when the going got tough.

Just like hiking on the trail, life only happens one bite at a time.

Climbing A Mountain Part 6: Leave No Trace

Leave No Trace

A wilderness mantra, it means pack out what you pack in. Including your own waste.

Fun stuff.

The Forest Service provides human waste pack-out bags. One large ziplock bag contains a paper target (think X marks the spot), a brown paper lunch bag containing a small scoop of kitty litter, another brown paper bag, and two (seriously?) squares of toilet paper. The directions are pretty straight forward. Find as much privacy as you can, lay the target on the ground, take aim, and hope you are a good shot. Drop your business into kitty litter bag. Insert kitty litter bag into paper bag. Tuck everything inside the zip lock bag. Take it with you.

Like I said. Fun stuff.

Now multiply that by 8 people and 2 1/2 days.

Everyone’s used bags went into a kitchen size garbage bag. If we’d thought better of it, we would have stowed our own stash somewhere and schlepped it out ourselves. But we didn’t, and digging into that ripening garbage bag to separate out a few for everyone to carry seemed like a very, very, very bad idea. One of our gang offered to take one for the team and carry the bag out.

He deserves a special place in heaven.

We tied the very heavy garbage bag to the outside of his pack, and prayed to the mountain gods that the bag wouldn’t split. A few steps down the trail I remembered the cotton pillow case in my pack. We put the garbage bag inside the pillow case, increasing the chances of the contents staying put.

There was an additional bag of garbage containing the rest of the trash accumulated over the course of our time on the mountain to be dealt with. Someone else volunteered to carry that bag out.

He deserves an almost-as-special place in heaven too.

Heading down the hill, every step the two guys who deserve special places in heaven took was made harder because of the additional weight. Because they were carrying what was not really theirs to carry. It was a visual reminder of something I already think about a lot. We are responsible for dealing with our own shit. For taking care of our own garbage. When we don’t, other people have to deal with it, like it or not.

We are born into the families and circumstances we are, shaping us into the humans we become. No one is exempt from the impacts—good, bad, and sometimes ugly—of those who raise us. We may not be responsible for all that happened to us. However, as we grow up and mature, we are accountable for what we do with what we’ve experienced and who we have become as a result.

This work of becoming healthy, whole-hearted humans isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s hard work, but it’s also good work. Some of the most important we will ever do. I know that because I’m still at it, and hopefully will be until I take my leave. The more work I do, the less I leave behind for others to have to carry.

It wasn’t lost on me that the pillow case carrying that garbage bag wasn’t just any pillow case. It was a gift from my daughters when they were little, with pictures of them on both sides. Whatever we leave unaddressed has a lasting impact. It becomes a burden carried by those around us. Usually those we love the most.

Leave No Trace

Climbing A Mountain

Do you think you two have another climb up Mt. Adams in you?

Because if you do, we want to do it with you.

Translation: We want to get up there with you while you still can.

That conversation last year with our niece and her husband started it all. Tom and I had to think about it, given that we’re not spring chickens anymore. On our morning walk the next day we decided that while we might not have multiple more climbs in us, we probably had at least one. With that in mind we opened the idea up to the rest of the generation behind us, and in the end, three couples threw their hats and hiking boots into the Mt. Adams 2022 ring.

We’ve been training for it for a year, readying ourselves to be strong enough to make the 12.2 mile trek to the 12,281’ summit. Over the course of that climb we would gain 6600 ft of elevation.

However.

You can train all you want and still not make it to the top.

Different obstacles got in the way for different people. Some of the hardest work we did was internal. Can I do this? What if I can’t. How can it be this hard? What if I slow everyone else down? Will I be able to overcome my fear of heights? What if I get altitude sickness? What if my old injury flairs up? What if I’m the weakest link?

In the end we had to come up against those fears, which is what happens in life on and off the mountain. Eventually we have to face them in order to be free of them.

The first day we hiked for eight hours, most of it on soft snow, with 40+ pound packs on our backs. It was a harder, longer day than any of us had anticipated, and as the sun dropped lower in the sky we began to give out. The altitude was having its way with some of us, and it was clear we needed to make camp soon. Apparently my speech was getting very slow, nausea and serious dehydration arrived on our scene, and I knew we were in trouble when Tom couldn’t seem to figure out how to put up our tent.

We found ourselves on a rocky outcrop with just enough room for four tents. Except for the ground beneath our tents, we had to maneuver over uneven boulders and rocks that were just a sprained ankle, broken leg, or worse waiting to happen. The temperature dropped, the light grew dim, and the wind came up. I was reminded, in the way that only nature can illuminate, that we are always hovering between life and death. We are so much smaller than we like to think in the big scheme of things. It’s good to be reminded of that now and then, lest I take myself and my brief presence on the planet too seriously.

At times like these, the best of who we are shows up. Those of us who could, took over for those of us who couldn’t, because that is what love does. While we had worked to get our bodies strong, in the end it was our hearts and our love and commitment to one another that got us up there.

The summit awaited us in the morning.

For the last year we have imagined ourselves at the top, each of us believing that we could do this hard thing. Together, eight of us were going to summit Mt. Adams on Friday, July 15th, 2022.

In the end four did.

I wasn’t one of them.

Stay tuned.

I’m dedicating the next few posts to what I learned by not summiting a mountain.

Choosing Hard

This past Monday morning, partway up the logging road we’ve been hiking a couple of times a week for the last fifteen months, it occurred to me that every trip up that road isn’t without effort. It is always some form of hard, which is probably because we attempt to push ourselves a little harder whenever the going gets a little easier.

In other words, it is hard by choice.

Over time, all of those trips up and down that road have made us stronger, readying us for more demanding hikes and greater physical challenges.

What is true on the trail is true in every area of our lives. Doing one hard thing equips us to do other hard things. And while life is full of opportunities to choose hard over easy, many of the difficulties we encounter come our way unbidden. They land on our doorstep whether we want them to or not.

Every time we choose to do something hard, we are training ourselves to be ready for the hard that chooses us.

A few more of my thoughts on hard:

Hard

Waiting Is Hard Work

It’s Just Hard

Remembering To Say Thank You

When the seriousness of the pandemic hit, it was quickly apparent that we needed to find a new way of working out. Going to a gym was no longer an option, and we weren’t ready to put our name on the waiting list for a Peloton. A neighbor had told us about a nearby logging road a fifteen minute drive from our house that he loved to explore with his malamutes. It was rarely used and had views that were worth the effort.

On April 11, 2020 we decided to check it out

We headed uphill, our dog Gracie at our heels with her hunter’s orange vest on since she is the color and size of a small bear. Within minutes it was apparent that if a good workout was what we were looking for, we had found it in this logging road.

From the first step it heads straight uphill for 1.7 miles. 2445 steps to the top, it has an elevation gain of just under 1000 ft. Talking on the way up wasn’t much of an option, but somewhere along that 1.7 mile, 2445 step slog I managed to gasp “Thank you Tom.”

And I’ve said it every trip to the top since.

So just what am I thanking him for?

On that first trek up I was thanking him for being willing to hike this road as a way to stay strong and healthy as we weathered the Covid storm together.

But now, with well-over 100 trips to the top and back?

It’s about thanking him for living life side-by-side through the thick and thin of it all, apologizing and accepting apologies, reflecting on a conflict on the way up so that we can resolve it on the way down, creating sacred rituals one footfall at a time, making new plans and jettisoning old ones, and navigating the slippery slopes and rocky terrain of life day in and day out. And for always carrying the bear spray.

In the beginning he was hiking the logging road because it was good for us. However, over time, all those trips up and down that road have become a metaphor for a life shared, and it is for that shared life that I am thankful.

And when we are thankful, it’s good to remember to say thank you.

“Thank you Tom.”

From The Logging Road: Lessons #5

We had a wicked wind storm a week ago, bringing with it all of the usual things. Detours due to downed trees, power outages, and flags, furniture, and fallen branches strewn hither and yon.

This morning was our first foray up the logging road since the storm, and rounding an early bend in the road, a downed pine tree blocked our way.

We had four options. Turn back, climb over, crawl under, or go around. All were viable possibilities.

Turning back didn’t even enter our minds. Arriving at the top, and the hike to get there have become a sacred practice. An intentional habit that anchors our week, fortifies our bodies, and fills our souls. Climbing over was doable, but not necessary, as was crawling under. So around we went. After a short scramble we were quickly on our way again , footsteps falling together on the trail.

Obstacles are inevitable.

The trick is to know what to do with them when they fall across our path.