The Mountain and Me
Two weekends in a row, I had changed my hiking plans because the predicted weather called for rain and then it didn't. Once again rain was in the forecast, but this time I vowed to hike anyway. I met my partner for the day, Christine, on the Aspiring 46ers Facebook page. After a bit of back and forth conversation, we agreed to meet at the trail head at 7:30. Mount Marshall is one of several unmarked trail less high peaks and I was happy to have some company.
As a team we did pretty well, never wandering off trail and after a long walk in, criss crossing the brook multiple times and viewing several waterfalls, we made it to the top. By then we had been in light rain for a couple of hours, but other than adding a hat, I hadn't felt the need for a raincoat. At the summit we heard the rain coming before it dropped madly from the sky. My rain coat came out as well as gloves, yes gloves, and we headed down the mountain after stopping briefly for the mandatory photo op, and a bite to eat.
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| Henderson Monument |
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| Cold and Wet |
It was miserable. My knees throbbed worse than ever before. I wanted to sit down on the ground and have a child like tantrum and announce to the world, "I am not taking another step, someone come get me now!" Not Saturday, because A. there was no dry spot to sit on B. it would take too long to rescue me and I was already very wet and cold C. I am too poor to pay for a rescue and finally D. it would be excruciatingly embarrassing. So I slogged through the mud and water, mile after mile until like a miracle the parking lot appeared. Barely pausing to say goodbye, I ran to my car, turned the ignition key and cranked on the heat. Not caring who was watching, I changed out of wet clothes and put on dry stuff and started the long drive home after hiking for 10 hours in the rain.
I don't write hike reports often. It isn't that I don't want to share my day in the mountains, but it's more that I am physically and mentally exhausted the next day. It is becoming more and more clear to me that I am not a naturally gifted hiker, nor do I enjoy slogging up a mountain in lousy weather. Waking up Sunday morning, I opened one eye and it didn't hurt so I tried for two, still good, and then I rolled over. Reality set in and I felt like a truck ran over me. Even days later when the aches and pains were all gone and my next hike had been planed, my body is still covered with bruises, most of which I am not sure how they got there.
It isn't the physical side that's getting me down, though I worry how many more trips up and down mountains my knees have in them, it is the mental beating I inflict upon myself that is taking a toll. I hate that I am slow and that lagging behind brings up a fear of being abandoned and tears to my eyes. Making it worse is when I tell people to go ahead, I don't mind, and then the feeling of being left in the forest scares the crap out of me. I hate that I am a fair weather hiker, it feels wimpy. I hate that I am afraid of falling, that I take little tiny steps, that I am short, that I am...........weak. I have always believed that being tough is the best way to get through life. Hiking mountains isn't just a physical exercise for me, I fighting with my demons each time I lace my boots. So why am I doing this? I started hiking as part of my weight loss journey and I fell in love with the smells, sounds, sights and yes, even the physicality of it. But somewhere along the line, I started to compare myself to others instead of feeling the joy within me and the awesomeness of the mountain. I found myself fixating over how long it took me, focusing on the panic of being left behind or falling, and lamenting my lack of toughness.
This weekend I am hiking with my sister. When I asked her she said, "I'm really slow" and my response was, "no one is slower than me". What is wrong with us? There is no better time than now to embrace the sunshine, blue sky and exhilaration of reaching a peak, but deep down I knew that by asking my sister, she would still love me even if I was slow, afraid and weak. I needed to feel safe and okay this hike because next weekend I will be hiking with a group and I am already worrying that I won't be good enough. More than anything, I want to shed those feelings like the leaves on the fall trees and stomp all over them. My joy will never come by galloping up and over several mountains at a time, but by breathing it all in, minute by minute.
"It's not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves". Sir Edmund Hillary
I don't write hike reports often. It isn't that I don't want to share my day in the mountains, but it's more that I am physically and mentally exhausted the next day. It is becoming more and more clear to me that I am not a naturally gifted hiker, nor do I enjoy slogging up a mountain in lousy weather. Waking up Sunday morning, I opened one eye and it didn't hurt so I tried for two, still good, and then I rolled over. Reality set in and I felt like a truck ran over me. Even days later when the aches and pains were all gone and my next hike had been planed, my body is still covered with bruises, most of which I am not sure how they got there.
It isn't the physical side that's getting me down, though I worry how many more trips up and down mountains my knees have in them, it is the mental beating I inflict upon myself that is taking a toll. I hate that I am slow and that lagging behind brings up a fear of being abandoned and tears to my eyes. Making it worse is when I tell people to go ahead, I don't mind, and then the feeling of being left in the forest scares the crap out of me. I hate that I am a fair weather hiker, it feels wimpy. I hate that I am afraid of falling, that I take little tiny steps, that I am short, that I am...........weak. I have always believed that being tough is the best way to get through life. Hiking mountains isn't just a physical exercise for me, I fighting with my demons each time I lace my boots. So why am I doing this? I started hiking as part of my weight loss journey and I fell in love with the smells, sounds, sights and yes, even the physicality of it. But somewhere along the line, I started to compare myself to others instead of feeling the joy within me and the awesomeness of the mountain. I found myself fixating over how long it took me, focusing on the panic of being left behind or falling, and lamenting my lack of toughness.
This weekend I am hiking with my sister. When I asked her she said, "I'm really slow" and my response was, "no one is slower than me". What is wrong with us? There is no better time than now to embrace the sunshine, blue sky and exhilaration of reaching a peak, but deep down I knew that by asking my sister, she would still love me even if I was slow, afraid and weak. I needed to feel safe and okay this hike because next weekend I will be hiking with a group and I am already worrying that I won't be good enough. More than anything, I want to shed those feelings like the leaves on the fall trees and stomp all over them. My joy will never come by galloping up and over several mountains at a time, but by breathing it all in, minute by minute.
"It's not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves". Sir Edmund Hillary
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