This is my ongoing conversation--how does it feel?
The subtleties of my foot hitting the ground. Well, not so much “hitting”, which feels more aggressive than it is. But, the gentle subtleties of feeling the ball of my foot, followed by the heel, rolling over the contours of soft moss, or padding along seasons of dried pine needles coating a well traveled path through an old pine forest. It’s different than when I am at home in Vermont. My steps there have more purpose, more immediacy. At times they are rushed from time commitments, schedules, to-do lists. Here, in these old mountains, rushing leads to possible injury, certainly to falling. These trails keep one humble. The trees puff up their root systems above the eroded trails, slyly hoping to slow one down, catch one’s boot, make one trip. The mosses cling to granite boulders, after the dew, or even a passing thunderstorm or driving rain—the lingering saturation of moisture slips, slimes, slides one out of control. There is the mud sucking one’s boot or hiking pole deeper into the muck. I’ve gone over this way in the past, heavy pack on my back. Akin to quick sand, or so it felt while reaching for a tree branch, or whole bush still firmly rooted, for leverage. Then there is the trail obstacle course of rocks and boulders and scree. These trails are not for the complacent or the distracted.
The subtleties of my foot hitting the ground. Well, not so much “hitting”, which feels more aggressive than it is. But, the gentle subtleties of feeling the ball of my foot, followed by the heel, rolling over the contours of soft moss, or padding along seasons of dried pine needles coating a well traveled path through an old pine forest. It’s different than when I am at home in Vermont. My steps there have more purpose, more immediacy. At times they are rushed from time commitments, schedules, to-do lists. Here, in these old mountains, rushing leads to possible injury, certainly to falling. These trails keep one humble. The trees puff up their root systems above the eroded trails, slyly hoping to slow one down, catch one’s boot, make one trip. The mosses cling to granite boulders, after the dew, or even a passing thunderstorm or driving rain—the lingering saturation of moisture slips, slimes, slides one out of control. There is the mud sucking one’s boot or hiking pole deeper into the muck. I’ve gone over this way in the past, heavy pack on my back. Akin to quick sand, or so it felt while reaching for a tree branch, or whole bush still firmly rooted, for leverage. Then there is the trail obstacle course of rocks and boulders and scree. These trails are not for the complacent or the distracted.
Yes, muscles and other bodily systems work hard, get sore. But, it is the brain functions, the meditations, the focus that takes its toll towards exhaustion. Every step is a complete meditation. The engagement of the step, the plant of the ball, the sole, the heel, the lift. It is how the step informs the leg, the hip, the back.
It is a dance, these steps, placed in ad-libbed choreography according to the environmental offerings. The rhythm of my breath accompanying nearby birdsong, random breeze-shifted leaves, and the chirping of a complaining squirrel.
It is a dance, these steps, placed in ad-libbed choreography according to the environmental offerings. The rhythm of my breath accompanying nearby birdsong, random breeze-shifted leaves, and the chirping of a complaining squirrel.
It makes sense to me to start my two-month summer trip here in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, my long time hiking home. After finishing my New England Hundred Highest peak hiking list last summer, I now want the cherry on top of the sundae. I want the ooh and ahh of the panoramic view. Oh, yes, I do still want to feel my strong, but aging, body navigating these trails, feeling the granite ledges under foot, running my hand along a polished tree root to pull myself up and over looming boulders.
This is where I feel most alive in my conversation between the civilized and the wild. The hurried and the mindful. This is where I drop the minutae of what contracts me, contains me, forces my hand. Yes, I am part of community and culture...but, I need the primal, too. I need to create my own feral reality here in the wilderness. To see the bear scat along the trail. The moose print in the mud. The partridge hopping through the dense underbrush. I need to hear the thunder traveling behind the graying cloud cover. The untamed river slashing downstream from still-melting snow in the higher elevations.
This is where I find myself again, that which needs to be un-yoked again—-my freedom, even from myself. And so it is that I have moved onto a different list, letting go of the strive for high elevations, bushwacking towards the treasure hunt for cannisters and notebook register signing. I went to the Appalachian Mountain Club ceremony this past April. I sat, socially distanced, among an auditorium of hikers finishing a variety of lists. I got the handshake and the signed document. But, these goals are not the end result. They mark a moment along a different trajectory within the ongoing conversation we have with ourselves over and over: Who are we when we are no longer tamed?
With trails still obstacled, and weather still demanding, I have no interest in the elevations of my new list of peaks. It is the view, each time, that will draw me to the peak. The list: New Hampshire 52 with a View!
Ooh, and Aah!
Happy hiking.
With trails still obstacled, and weather still demanding, I have no interest in the elevations of my new list of peaks. It is the view, each time, that will draw me to the peak. The list: New Hampshire 52 with a View!
Ooh, and Aah!
Happy hiking.