As I settle into Spokane (I use “settle” loosely), I’ve been exploring different types of trails that are nearby.
I know you’re surprised. Here…you probably need another picture as proof.
For about two weeks, I had this wild plan that I would increase the length of my weekend hikes by a mile each week. I happened to do 14 one week…and then 15 the next. The scheme made sense. But as I began my research for the upcoming week, I couldn’t find an interesting trail that matched the desired length. Instead, I found a trail that claimed to have mountain goats.
I let go of the short-lived obsession with “distance traveled in a day”. Nooo. That’s not right. I loosened my grip on my obsession with “distance traveled in a day”. Here I was in a brand new place with a range of trails at my fingertips and I was obsessing about how far I could hike in a day? At the expense of MOUNTAIN GOATS? Just think…I almost missed out on this:
But I still wanted topush myself and find the edge of comfort. So I’m working with a sort of a balance between these different types of hikes.
Some hikes are about the destination – a summit, a lake, foraging for huckleberries, the proximity to mountain goats (but not too close).
And other hikes are about going far, going fast, or going high. I call these the “Maintenance Hikes.” They offer the maintenance I need to remain my best self…physically, mentally, and emotionally. We’re holistic over here.
Not everything we do is about where we’re going. Sometimes it’s about the work you put in to get there and what you learn along the way.
Also…I’m always scheming about longer day hikes in the future (near and far), so I’ve gotta stay ready.
As I immersed myself in the natural beauty of Wyoming and Montana, I kept coming back to this idea of contrast. Think of delicate wildflowers gently waving in the wind with stony peaks in the background. The flowers move and shift in response to their environment, moment to moment…and season to season.
Every where I paused, I was struck by this contrast. Sunflowers danced in a coming Kansas storm. Wandering Daisies and Paintbrushes lined the trail to an alpine lake in the Tetons. And in Yellowstone, I was struck by the vibrancy of flora next to geothermal activity. And in Glacier, the Harebell and Yarrow was joined by huckleberries!
But the theme of contrast extends beyond wildflowers that refuse to be defined by weather, soil, or even stomping boots.
I noticed this contrast while watching the bull moose nuzzle noses with a female. They nibbled greens, checked in with one another, and then crossed the trail ahead of me. The bull kept an eye out to make sure I wasn’t a threat.
But casually returned to the business of…moose-ing. This intimidating creature also had a gentle side.
I also saw contrast in the way water pushed its way through “immovable” rock. From the aptly named Artist Point in Yellowstone, I wondered at the difference between liquid and solid. This contrast tells a story about perseverance and the changes that happen over time.
And what about temperature?
From geothermal ground that will burn your skin off…up to glaciers. These natural wonders are within just a new hours of one another. Can you imagine stumbling upon this world for the first time? One moment the water is chilling you to the bone…and the next it’s hot enough to sanitize your dishes.
Then there’s my willingness to crawl out of a tent at 4 am for the ideal start time…contrasted with the desire to stay curled into a cozy, comfy bed.
That’s where I am now.
I look back at three weeks of constant movement, early mornings and evenings – rising and setting myself with the sun, long days of hiking, dehydrated meals more often than not…
And that’s over. For now.
I’m settling into a season of stillness. Work responsibilities kick back into high gear. Meal prep becomes a part of the weekly rhythm. I sleep in the same place for more than just a few nights. And long hikes are for the weekend.
I’ve been in Spokane for a week now and the acclimation has been harder than I anticipated. It feels like everything screeched to a halt. But I know that’s not true. There’s adventure to be found in stillness. Now, please excuse me while I go find it.
It was not my favorite trail. For two miles, I had worked my way in and out of forest cover, spotting one steamy sulfur flat…but otherwise, questioning my decision. I could have made it so much easy on myself by driving to the trailhead with direct access to Bunsen Peak. But no. I wanted more mileage and more elevation, so I started four miles away.
Peek at Bunsen Peak in the distance! (What was I thinking?)
And while I wasn’t too happy with that decision, I had already started…so I might as well keep going. Semi-lost in my own head, but also paying attention to the sounds around me. Birds calling to one another…chipmunks yelling at their friends…the crunch of the trail underfoot..and then there was a different sound.
Something was crashing through the woods up ahead. It sounded like it was falling from the ridge of rocks lining the trail and it.just.kept.going. Was it a boulder? Was it a bear? The sound came to an end, but I could see the trees shaking in the path “the sound” had taken.
Note the terrified chipmunk in the middle of the photo and the rocky cliffs in the distance (Hoodoos)
What. Was. That???
I stood where I was and waited. I took a few steps back and tried to get a better angle at the gully where the sound had stopped. Too many trees. I took a few steps forward. And there – movement! Coming up from the gully was an elk. Harmless.
But…
Had he haphazardly and graceless made his way down the mountain for no other reason that to reach this spot where he now stood relaxed and calm? Or…was something chasing him?
I continued forward at a slower pace, making more noise, swiveling my head back and forth…watching for any movement that didn’t align with the light breeze. The wooded trail soon opened up in to a rocky trail…large boulders surrounded the trail, creating the perfect hiding places for bears. I knew that the best bet to keep bears away was to make noise. So, I alternated between having elementary conversations with myself in French and adapting the Addam’s Family song to fit the situation.
Eventually, my untrafficked trail met up with the more trafficked trail directly to the peak that was my final destination. When I finally reached the peak, I sat there enjoying a protein pop tart (it’s a thing) and questioning my life decisions.
It took a substantial amount of work to talk myself into heading back to my starting place, knowing that I would have to cross through Grizzly Alley for a second time. The return trip created ample opportunity for me to compose a second verse to my “Grizzly Family” song. If you’re ever in need of a song to sing along a potential Grizzly-filled trail, let me know. Otherwise…no, you can’t hear it.
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.
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.
On January 1, 2019, I went hiking. My first hike of the year (obviously). That weird “in between” time between Christmas and New Year’s had gotten to me, so I was going just a little bit stir crazy. And hiking was the reprieve. It wasn’t an incredibly long or arduous hike…but it was a chance for my brain slow down and prepare for the year ahead (and what a year it was).
Throughout the year, hiking has continued to serve as a reprieve. Anytime that life has felt to overwhelming, hiking has been a way to reset. No matter how complicated “everything” seemed, I knew that the woods would be there and they would be safe.
Sometimes they were bright and sunny. Sometimes they were dark. Some hikes were hot and muggy…others were rainy or snowy…and many times they were foggy. But one thing was certain – I would always come off a trail with a better sense of direction and greater confidence in whatever came next.
Sometimes the hikes were easy, a gentle mosey through the woods. And sometimes they were hard. In New Hampshire, I got my butt handed to me with some serious elevation gain. In Vermont, I plowed my way through fresh snow. And in Maryland I almost got eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of cows. But each trail, filled with its own, unique set of challenges, left me with a unique sense of accomplishment.
Sometimes I made it through an entire trail without seeing another soul. One time everyone I saw commented on the coffee I made on rocks and stumps alongside the trail. A few times people commented on the size of my pack. And very occasionally, I intentionally hiked with other people. Oh – and one time I discussed my philosophy of education with a couple of elementary school principals! Going along or meeting people along the way…I certainly have a preference, but I’ve seen the advantage to both approaches (I’m looking at you, Mount Mansfield). There are moments when community can push you along on a journey.
Sometimes there were creatures. Maybe a dog came along…but it’s more likely that I just found them along the way. Lots of caterpillars and slugs and snails. Occasionally a snake or frog or salamander. And then there were those wild baby hogs (if I didn’t tell you that story…it’s better “in person”). They always instilled with me a sense of wonder – their movement, their adaptation, the way they’re just doing life in this place of pure beauty!
On January 1, I didn’t really have a “hiking plan.” I wanted to cover 300 miles (50 more than last year), but there wasn’t a specific method to that madness. Just go.
So I went 352 miles in 12 different states (full disclosure – my last hike was chosen solely to even up some of those numbers).
The woods never failed to be my safe space…a place that gave me clarity…that reminded me what I value and why…that made me slow down and appreciate beauty.
After less than two weeks of training, tomorrow I dive head-first into being an outdoor educator. If you’ve known me for more than two minutes, you know that I’m fairly passionate about the outdoors and I’m fairly passionate about education. But this is a beast of a completely different matter.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve lashed canoes together to build a catamaran. I’ve donned a bee suit and worked my way into a hive. I’ve identified and eaten edible plants. I’ve hiked in and around the “classroom,” sometimes at night. I’ve been blindfolded and done corny team-building activities with the 17 other folks who are in this with me. And more often than not, I have felt completely out of my element.
I haven’t done research projects on birds or studied extensively studied environmental science. I haven’t taught kids how to backpack or how to build fires. Heck – I don’t even cook my own food over a fire when I’m camping. I don’t know how to identify birds by their call or find salamanders under rocks.
For two weeks, I have been completely intimidated, terrified, and overwhelmed.
But then I find myself laying in the grass, trying to write down everything I’ve learned (and everything I still need to figure out), and a tiny caterpillar crawls across my notebook. Or I find myself coming down a trail as the sun as setting and I just pause to listen. Or I hunt for quartz and successfully come up with two pieces that will create a chemical reaction, sure to wow a bunch of wily kiddos on a night hike.
Every day is a new chance to learn or discover or experience something. I am trying to focus on that…the advantage that gives me. Like the kids who will roll in tomorrow, I am here to learn. And we get to do that together.
At this point in time, I’ve been on this journey for two months. And for the first time in two months, I actually have a plan for two months out.
If you’ve known me for more than a minute, you probably know that I like plans. And structure. And being in control of everything that happens.
For the past two months, all of that – those comforts – have been more or less absent from my life. I have been at the mercy of the weather and other people and the efficiency of Wifi in coffeeshops, AirBnBs and breweries. One morning, I woke up without knowing where I would be sleeping that night. Being flexible has taken on a whole new meaning!
And even though I have the next two months planned (what?!?), I know that the day-to-day within these months will require that same flexibility. I’ll be taking groups of students on hikes to find mushrooms. We’ll talk about pond ecology. There will be team-building games on a low ropes course.
But as much as I plan and prepare and even though I could read through an entire field guide, there will be days when it rains. There will be kids who refuse to participate in team-building games. And someone might have an asthma attack or go into anaphylactic shock (I went through first aid/CPR training the other day and I’m still shaking off the “worst case scenario” mentality.)
The next two months will be look completely different from the last two months. But they will continue challenging me to be more flexible and remain open to learning, growing and experience life in new ways.
I started in Heber Springs…where I dug through boxes of my things to find layers for colder weather and extra towels…made cream puffs and pie…helped make a giant batch of spaghetti for a church dinner…annoyed my parents’ dog…checked on my plants. And I hiked my hometown trail (pretty sure some friends dragged me up it, kicking and screaming, sometime during high school…so much has changed).
From there, I headed south to see family (a visit that was made complete with freshly caught & fried fish + hush puppies…I made the cole slaw).
And because I’m a little bit crazy, I woke up around 1:30 am on Sunday and drove to Nashville. I spent the day with some of my favorite people and went to bed completely exhausted…but with an entirely full heart.
Now it’s time to close this giant loop by heading up to New Hampshire! I’ll spend September & October (plus a smidge of November) working at an outdoor education center. It’s going to be completely bananas and I couldn’t be more excited.
On the way to Ohio, I stopped in Connecticut to visit some friends. I got a walking tour of New Haven (including East Rock), ate falafel and made pie. There wasn’t really a plan for what would go into the pie…but someone got excited and showed up with a mess of fruits. Nectarine, plum, blueberries, currants, peach, apricot…they all went into the pie.
Then I slept.
The next morning I got up early, walked to a coffee shop to knock out some work, and then started driving to Ohio. Questioning myself the ENTIRE WAY.
Why am I doing this? I’m trying to be more open to people and opportunities…
What if it’s awkward? We make jokes.
What happens if we hate each other? I leave.
Do I know anyone else in the Columbus area? Yes.
Is he going to make me meet his people? That would be too weird.He wouldn’t do that!!
Will we disagree over where to eat dinner? Probably…but we’ll both be too polite to argue about it.
What if I try to make a pie for him and I forget how to make pie? That. Won’t. Happen.
As you can see, it was a long and very eventful drive. But suddenly, I was there.
And…it was awkward. And there were moments when we didn’t like each other and we were too polite to choose places to eat dinner and I did have to meet his people, but I was able to show up (on one occasion) with a slew of hand pies. It’s overwhelming to think about Ohio in one big chunk though. So let’s break it down:
THE GOOD
Hanging out with his people…
THE BAD
Because we didn’t know how to translate our phone-based interactions (after meeting in person twice) to real-life…
THE MESSY
And now I’m going to New Hampshire.
Right.
After a month of talking on the phone, being in the same place at the same time was weird. We couldn’t figure out how to do that. And on top of that, New Hampshire was looming in the future.
By the end of my visit, it was slightly less awkward to spend time in the same place. And we figured out how to work through some of the moments when we didn’t like each other.
Then…I left. Now there are two months looming ahead of us when I’ll be in New Hampshire (working at an outdoor education center!!) and he’ll be in Ohio. Like I said – messy.
I really like black and white…yes and no…forward and backward. But this is one of the situations that’s grey, maybe and sideways. So we have two months to talk. And then we’ll see where we are.
From Sunsets to Storm Clouds 