Once upon a time, a group of French Canadian explorers were making their way across what is now known as “The West.” They saw snowy peaks of mountains reaching up out of the vast wilderness ahead of them and, perhaps missing the comforts of home, they named the mountains “Les Trois Tetons.” Or, The Three Breasts. There were other names over the years including, “Teewinot” as used by the local Shoshone popultation. But somehow, we remain with the memory of some scandalous French-Canadian fur trappers. (At least that’s how I’m going to tell it because it’s more entertaining.)’
Now you might be wondering, “Mary Elizabeth…surely you didn’t travel across the country just because there’s some borderline salacious story about how these mountains got their name.”
Look at these trails…do you really think I went because the name is funny in French?
No. I went because miles of trail stretched out before me, leading to pockets of nature unlike any I had ever experienced. I hiked to three different lakes that rested at more than 9000’ of elevation. Along the way, I encountered marmots, moose, elk, and pikas (no bears – thank goodness).
Every time I turned a corner, I would let out a little gasp of awe. The Grand Tetons are truly a unique ecosystem. But that’s what I find with each new bit of nature that I explore. If you have hiked one trail…then you have hiked one trail. There are many, many more to explore.
I came to the end of the vast openness of the plains early the next morning, after making my coffee while watching the sun rise over the Green River (not in Vermont).
Driving north on 189, I could see shapes emerge in the distance. But they seemed impossibly far away. Ever so slowly, the plains around me gave way to hills…and those hills became dotted with evergreens…and those evergreens grew thicker…and the forested hills grew into peaks. Those impossibly distant shapes were around me.
I was the person who stopped at every other pull out to savor the changes in the landscape. The road wove around a river, rising and falling between the peaks. I made my way through Jackson and back onto a wide open space…but this time, I could look east and west to find variations in the landscape. Out my driver’s side window, I could see the Tetons.
It seemed impossible that such tall, craggy peaks, each with their own personality, could just be here in such a wide, open space.
But here they were. And here I was…with time and space to explore.
As you drive from Kansas into eastern Colorado…and make your way north into Wyoming, you encounter a vastness. There is a wide openness that many people find freeing.
But I find it to be exposing?
It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, ungrounded. I need the safety of rocks and trees, forests and mountains, summits…valleys…gorges…anything but wide, open, flat plains.
But that’s where I found myself for hours and hours. I felt like I might just roll away. To the east, there were rain clouds…but I couldn’t tell you how far or how close they were. And to the west, the sun was slowly falling through the clouds. The pink rays were reaching through, striking the ground, spreading out, taking up space.
There was beauty in the openness…it was an opportunity to consider the wideness of space…an invitation to consider what it’s like beyond what you see and know. It forces you to wonder about people in those other spaces. What’s it like to be beneath those rain clouds? Or to be touched by the pink rays of the setting sun? But at the same time, it’s exhausting. These miles of driving feel exactly like the miles I traveled an hour ago…wide and open and never ending…
Sometimes trails give you exactly what you expect. You start in a forest and that forest remains the same for the entire hike, no break or shift or change. What you see at the beginning is what you get throughout.
But other times a trail surprises you. You start in an open rocky area, then clamber over pebbles and small stones. This leads to a climb up to larger rocks. At some point, you are finding “three points of contact” as you scramble up a chunk of rock in the middle of open space.
And you keep going. Eventually you find yourself moving through woods. There are tall trees and short, scrubby bushes and a range of grasses. You brush your hands through them…some are soft and smooth, but others are prickly. You realize that not all of the grasses are friendly. There are cacti and wildflowers and the rocks shift change their shape once again. You come to a dry stream bed and you make your way to the top of what is sometimes a waterfall but today it’s just a little puddle.
And those are the trails that surprise you. They keep you wondering what you’re going to find next…what’s around this corner…will it be large or small? What questions will it make me ask?
And it keeps you going moving, asking new questions at every turn.
Somewhere east of the middle of Kansas, the corn fields and cow pastures are interrupted by piles of rocks. One of those rocks is called Castle Rock. When the map told me that I had arrived, I found myself parking by fenced-in oil tanks. But, I had driven all this way…so I had to at least investigate. Even though the sky was slowly growing darker and there may or may not have been some sprinkles falling from the sky.
I decided that I could run down the trail for five minutes and, if it didn’t get interesting, I would turn around. Three minutes later, I turned the corner of a rocky outcropping and saw the castle. Poking up from the prairie land, Castle Rock was just…there. I ran faster down the hill and stood in awe. I know just enough about how rocks form to begin formulating some theories before my curiosity was interrupted by thunder…the scary kind. I took some pictures and began running up the path on the other side. I thought, “Surely this will trail will connect back to the parking area.” I got briefly distracted by sunflowers – appreciating the contrast of these sunny sunflowers with the epic rock formation and growing clouds.
My appreciation didn’t last long. The rain started. And there might have been some hail mixed in.
When I made my way (slightly off trail) back to my car, a truck was parked at the fences. By this time, the rain was pouring and I was soaked. He pulled up next to my car and joked about the rain. He asked if I wanted him to follow me out and I said, “Nah – I’ll be fine.”
A mile down the road and I questioned my decision.
I spent 4.5 years living in a state with five seasons – Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, Mud Season.
But this was a mud of a different breed. I felt like I was driving on slushy snow. So, I inched along. I saw lights coming up behind me and got as close to the edge of the road as I could without fearing that I would coast right into the pasture. The driver stopped and assured me that this sort of rain was unusual and that the road was, indeed, “slimy.” He offered a brief history lesson on Castle Rock before letting me know that he’d be down this road in a few hours and would keep an eye out for me.
I plodded along. About two miles later, I realized that something was…wrong. I could feel the rear passenger side of my car pulling. So, again, I pulled to the side of the road and got out to take a look. The mud was caked so thick on my tire that there was on longer any space for it to move. I considered my options, quickly realizing that I didn’t really have many of them. I pulled a hiking pole out of my car and began chopping away at the mud. Eventually, that seemed to stop working so I dug in with my hand.
That’s when I realized that this was a slimy mud mixed with slurry-like clay. And it was caked into every crevice possible in a wheel well (and there are many). A while later, when I had just about rediscovered my tire, another truck pulled up behind me.
Are you stuck?
…not really.
Flat tire?
No. It’s…well…there was a lot of mud.
He got out of his truck to stare at my tire. He suggested I get in the car and try to drive…he would watch to see if the wheel was moving. He reassured me that I was good to go and could make it to the main road (spoiler alert: it still wasn’t paved, but hadn’t received nearly as much rain). And then he told me he lived near the corner and would keep an eye out for me to make sure that I made it out okay.
And I plodded along. Eventually, making it to a paved road and breathing a sign of relief. I stopped for coffee and then hopped on the interstate. We were finally moving…until we were moving in a way that wasn’t right.
The car started shaking anytime I went over 55. So I slowed down to a snail-like pace (50 in a 75 zone…with my flashers on) and took the next exit. I didn’t even bother with the hiking pole and just went into the wheel wells with my hands. I dug out enough mud/clay to make a coffee shop worth of mugs.
And I plodded along…only for it to happen again. I pulled into a rest stop and, in a panic, called an auto mechanic who was just another exit down the interstate. He said he would take a look. So, with flashers and my snail like pace, we drove to the next exit.
When he came out, I asked, “Do you want the whole story or do you just want to take a look at it?” It was clear that I had gotten myself into some sort of muddy pickle. I responded to his quizzical look with the full story.
And then he power washed my car and I went on my way.
While this could be a lesson in not overreacting, I do not regret paying a Kansas auto mechanic for a car wash. The car (aka Nessie) is essential for this section of my journey. I’m willing to pay a little extra for the reassurance that all is well.
I left Vermont on July 3rd. But the process of leaving began long before that.
There were responsibilities that needed to be passed off to others. Students that needed to be told. “Things” that needed to be donated or given away. Lakes that needed to be paddled in the sunshine. The cat that needed a vaccination update. Next steps that needed to be planned…loosely. And a mountain that needed to be summited one more time.
And it was foggy.
But here’s the thing…I don’t mind the fog. The fog is a reminder that there is a world out there beyond what you can see. Maybe there’s a castle. Maybe there are unicorns.
Whatever it is, you can let your imagination run wild with the limitless potential. When I was on the cusp of something new and different, the fog was a beautiful reminder:
Although I can’t see what’s just ahead, I can believe that it will be something wonderful.
Do you remember that time that I drove into the state in the midst of a snowstorm to “do a bit of hiking?” How that bit of hiking spiraled into an ascent of all five 4000 footers in the state and a new job?
And then the whole world spiraled into a pandemic and I spiraled into a relationship and everything was topsy turvy for a while?
And we went through masks and vaccines. And love and heartbreak. And at some point, I really wanted to run away.
But I stayed.
And I did more than a bit of hiking and skiing and kayaking. And I made friends who would sometimes do them with me. Sometimes everything went smoothly and sometimes we questioned our decisions.
And the same could be said for much of my time here. Sometimes things have gone smoothly…and sometimes I’ve questioned my decisions. But I never regretted any of them.
I don’t regret the terror of that first snowstorm or almost getting lost trying to summit Mount Hunger on snowshoes (even though I might have cried a little). From those first days of chaos, I have learned to hold loosely to my plans and trust the trail that unfolds before me.
The seasons speak to me. It is in observing the seasons that I become more aware of God and myself and the intertwining of the two.
The other day, I visited a trail near my house. It’s a popular trail that I haveprimarily visited in the winter. As I headed up the trail, I noticed the blooming flowers and the fresh green of the trees and the singing birds.
And I got to this section of the trail that, in winter, is intimidating. It’s at a section that gets direct sunlight, melting the top layer of snow during the day. But quickly refreezing overnight. The result is an icy, treacherous section of trail. I typically bushwhack my way around to a place where I can gently slide down, a few feet at a time (for whatever reason, I always go counter-clockwise and set myself up for a slide down the ice, rather than a climb up it).
But in the summer…with no snow to melt and no melted snow to refreeze, this section wasn’t a concern. I scrambled up and over the grippy rocks without any concern. No spikes, poles, or helmet necessary.
And it made me consider how each season of life comes at us with different expectations and different requirements. I prepare for a hike in the summer differently than I prepare for a hike in the winter…or even a hike in the spring or fall! Each season requires different gear and a different sort of preparation.
Can life be like that, too?
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1
It’s the first day of spring. A joyful, hopeful day that encourages us to step outside and stretch our creaky bones. A day that reminds us that new is right around the corner. New growth, new creepy crawl friends, new adventures, new recipes!
For the past year, the changing seasons have struck me with a little more oomph. When I moved to Vermont, there were so many hopes and dreams and plans. I wanted to find “my people” and I wanted to climb all of the mountains in Vermont, New Hampshire and New York and I wanted to spend time in Maine and I wanted to take naps outside and I wanted to bake new things and I wanted to grow as a person and as a teacher and I wanted to live a life full of love and joy and peace. And I’ve done some of that over the past 14 months…
But there are moments when I am consumed by all that has been lost over the past year. Lost opportunities, lost relationships, lost celebrations, lost lessons, lost books (the local library calls me once a month), lost lives, lost laughter.
I start to lose myself comparing the year that I wanted with the year that I had. I lose myself trying to make up the lost time by cramming a dozen different things into a weekend like studying for a Praxis while planning parent-teacher conferences and writing a grant and feeding myself and trying to stay active and burning out on snowshoeing and finding missing library books and getting jealous of people who are already vaccinated (VT was slow to make teachers eligible)…
Then I remember that spring is here. My tiny human friends have been noticing signs of spring for a couple of weeks now and we’ve begun making watercolor paintings to show off what we’ve observed. The snow is melting to reveal the strong branches of trees and little fresh sprouts of green. The birds are making themselves known and squirrels are darting around our favorite play spaces. There are puddles to splash through and mud for making pies.
The arrival of spring doesn’t mean that I automatically forget to feel sad about the things that went awry over the past year. It doesn’t mean that I find joy in all of the chaos and craziness and loss. Instead, it helps me look forward to all of the new joy and adventures that are ahead.
P.S. Winter wasn’t miserable. I’m not miserable. I’m just feeling the weight of melty snow, a year of a pandemic, the impending doom of a Praxis test, and the emotional recoil from parent-teacher conferences (all of my students and parents are lovely…but talking to adults is hard work).
One year ago, I rolled into Vermont. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. The world had opened up to me in a new and exciting way. A new state, new trails, new coffee shops, new breweries, new job, new people…all of mine for the exploring. And not just one state! Access to New Hampshire and Maine and New York trails…wild caught fish from the coast, wood fired ovens for baking pies, blueberries to be picked, Canada to explore…
For ten weeks, it was all of that. Trails, breweries, coffee shops, kiddos, people…Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine…dreams of skiing and ice fishing…making plans for “letter of the week” with preschoolers and starting nature journals. Dreaming with friends about summer adventures to Acadia.
And then everything changed. You know what I’m talking about.
This was not the year that I planned. This was not the year that any of us planned. [But you know all of this part…The moms who imagined a kid’s first day of kindergarten. The college seniors who planned the perfect graduation party. The high school seniors who had been dreaming of prom for ages. People who had jobs suddenly didn’t have them. Neighbors who were friendly suddenly couldn’t be on the sidewalk together.
There were signs about social distancing in grocery stores and libraries and on trails. Masks and hand sanitizer in my car and my pockets. Dry, cracked skin from washing my hands too much in the heat and humidity of summer. Couldn’t go out to make friends, so settled for the cats that lived in the house with me and avoided contact with a crazy roommate as much as possible.
My relatively comfortable (if “new”) boat was rocked, like everyone else. But I am quick to realize just how minor my rocking was…and just how comfortable my bubble has been (I’ve struggled to be okay with that comfort…Nashville – I love you and want to hug every last one of you). I remained employed. I stayed connected with vital members of my community (in Tennessee and North Carolina and Pennsylvania). I had access to trails that were new and exciting. I was able to leave the crazy roommate and settle into my own space with my own cat.
We all thought it would be over by the beginning of summer…well, by the end of summer…by fall…by the holidays? It’s still not “over,” but I’m closing the chapter on this first year. And, in my typical fashion, I reflect on a closing chapter by the trails I took.]
A year ago, I thought I would have hiked two dozen different 4000 footers by this time. Instead, I hiked five of them over and over and over and over again – winter, spring, summer and fall. Camel’s Hump, Abraham, Ellen, Mansfield, Killington. With each ascent, I noticed something different about the trail and about the summit. There was a new plant to appreciate or a new rock revealed. Light reflected through the trees differently than it reflected off of snow and ice. There were bunny tracks left in the snow instead of chipmunk scampering through the trees. The birds’ wings rustled differently through fresh green leaves than through the crisp leaves of fall.
But it wasn’t just a change in nature that caught my eye. I was changing. With each trip up to a familiar summit, I found myself anticipating something. The rise and fall of the trail, branches forming an archway at a certain point in the trail, a hollowed out trail perfect for goofy pictures, the perfect sitting rock at a summit…I developed a level of familiarity with these trails that I haven’t had before. I’ve always been focused on moving on to something new. That’s why I hit all 56 state parks in Tennessee in a year…I didn’t want to do the same thing over and over. But this year has taught me the value in repetition, in taking the time to know something well.
Please don’t misunderstand – I will not be settling down to hike only the trails in Vermont for the rest of my life. No, no.
But, I will have more willingness to be content in stillness…enjoying the space and the community around me, celebrating, mourning, immersing. Stepping away from the chaos of the world to a favorite spot in the woods. Finding comfort in familiarity. And savoring quiet moments outside with my cat (even though he refuses to enjoy the snow).
From Sunsets to Storm Clouds 