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Treeline. Part 2.

Trauma. I’m so fucking sick of that word. Trauma, on its own, has a relatively benign dictionary definition: “A deeply distressing or disturbing experience”. Christ, I have that experience every time I see a spider inside the house or hear someone chewing their potato chips like they are the last meal they will ever eat.

The thing with spiders and potato chips is that those things are short-lived. The spider is there, and then it’s not. The chips are there, and then they are gone. And you can move on with your life. These things are also not a secret that needs to be kept hidden. Matter of fact, you can turn them into funny stories to entertain your friends with. 

Childhood trauma is not that easy. Childhood trauma is like you are inside a clear, soundproof box full of spiders eating potato chips and crawling all over you and you are screaming and pounding on the glass, but everyone just looks right through you and walks away. And then you realize, they are probably right. What am I creating all this fuss about? It’s just a god-damn spider sitting on my lap eating a fucking potato chip. Steal the chip, step on the spider and get out of the box. Problem solved.

I’m hiking up the Airline Trail on my way up towards Mounts Madison and Adams. I’m hidden under the tree canopy. It’s fall, and the colors are beautiful. In a way, I’m present in the way a hiker must be present – I watch where I put my feet, I pay attention to my surroundings, I drink when I’m thirsty, I eat when I’m hungry and I rest when I’m tired. But the rest of myself, my real self, is miles and years away. I can’t get to that part of myself, hidden here under the trees. That part of myself is hidden behind years of shame and disbelief and denial. It is not something that is spoken about. It is not something I admit to myself. It did not happen.

But I am so fucking tired of hiding the fact that I know that it did. I get to the part of the Airline Trail where you pop out above treeline. It’s freaking beautiful, but my backpack is stuck on a tree, and I can’t seem to shake it free no matter how hard I try. I finally squirm my way out of the pack, unleash it from the tree, open it up, dig out the container that is holding all the rocks of trauma, and throw the container over the cliff that I’m standing on. No trees in front of me. Nowhere to hide. I’m tired of hiding. Get me out of these woods and up into the Presidentials. I’ll find myself a rock to use as a pulpit, and I’m going to tell my story.

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Treeline

You can’t hide above treeline. Above treeline means exactly that – no trees. It means if it is a sunny day and you forgot your sunscreen, you’re fucked. It means if it’s windy and your hot and sweaty when you get to the summit, but forgot a jacket, you’re fucked. It means if you forgot to check the weather forecast the morning of your hike and didn’t take the time to notice the chance of afternoon thunderstorms and didn’t plan a bailout route, you’re fucked. It means if you get to treeline and observe that there is zero visibility and 70 mph winds but decide to cross the ridge anyway, you’re fucked. And also stupid. 

If you wait for the perfect day to be above treeline, you might be waiting for a while, and may never get the chance to experience the sheer grandeur that is the spectacular Presidential range. But if you’re prepared, if you know what to expect, if you have everything you need to take care of yourself if the unexpected arises, you are not fucked. You are choosing to live your life above treeline, understanding the risks, but refusing to let fear keep you from hiding. You are choosing beauty, freedom, power, and strength.  You are hiking where everyone can see you. They can see your skills, your knowledge, and your strengths. But they can also see your pain, your trauma, and your addictions. 

But this is okay. Hiking above treeline exposes everything. Yet nothing changes. You are still hiking. You are still moving forward. You’ve made mistakes, but you’re still standing, above the trees, closer to the sky than you’ve ever been, and you have more power than ever. You can’t hide above treeline. And today, I refuse to do this any longer. There are too many hikes to hike and too many moments in life to miss by hiding inside my sleeping bag just because the summit of the mountain is a little fucking windy. 

I don’t want to hide anymore. I am tired of secrets. I am tired of pretending. I am tired of holding myself so tight just so I make sure that the stuff that makes my life real doesn’t squeeze out by mistake. I am tired of trying to show the world that I have all my shit together. Because I don’t. I want the people around me to understand the person that makes me the person that I am. And to do that, they need to understand not only where I’ve been, but also where I’m going. Hiding helps no one. Transparency is the treeline of life.

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The Lincoln Woods Trail

Addiction is like always reaching for the next thing. The next edge. The next high to get you away from yourself. I’d try to compare it to hiking but today I’m really not feeling it. Addiction is like never getting to the top. It’s like walking on a trail that never goes anywhere. Yet the hope that it will take you to some sort of utopia never subsides. Addiction doesn’t care what your drug of choice is. It only cares that you use something, anything, to try to get that edge you are looking for. The trail of addiction is a never-ending climb on a trail that looks really pretty and seems to promise a good view, except that the view never comes. You get glimpses of the open summits ahead of you, glimpses of the trees getting smaller and the sky getting closer, yet this reaching for something, anything that looks pretty, never amounts to anything. You reach and you reach, and you reach. But there is nothing to grab, nothing to hold onto. So, you reach for the next drug. Because at least this is something real you can hold onto, even if it is temporary. Because when you never get the view you are trying so hard to find, this drug must be the key to exploding you out of the woods and onto the rock ledges that expose you to the expansiveness of all the mountain ranges in the distance that someday you hope to climb. 

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Isolation. Part Two.

I fight off isolation every day. I also fight to keep it close. Addiction is a disease of isolation. Decrease the isolation you feel and decrease the chances of a relapse. Cling to isolation, and the intensity of the cravings feel unbearable. I cannot escape my own mind, no matter how hard I try. The secret to escape is connection. Connection, to me, is incredibly elusive. It’s like someone is blowing bubbles out into the wind and I try so desperately to grab one, make it mine, take it home. And no matter how gentle I am, they keep popping and I wind up with nothing.

Isolation, the mountain, would not be half as scary if it had a different name. It is an understated mountain that, although wild and remote, is a calm and peaceful hike to a wonderful view. Yet the name itself makes the mountain seem desolate and terrifying in my own mind. Isolation and connection are equally as terrifying. In order to connect with others in a way that doesn’t feel pointless and stupid, I would first need to be able to pry all the bricks down that are making up the wall in my mind in order to get to the feelings behind them. But whoever laid those bricks down used a mortar that is way to freaking strong and takes way too much time and effort to break down. People say I need to try harder to get behind that wall. It’s like the river you need to cross if you take the Rocky Branch Trail route up Isolation. If it’s been raining, or if there’s been a lot of snow melt, that damn river is going to stop your efforts every single time. If you do happen to get across that river, you need to make damn sure that the river isn’t going to rise higher before you retrace your steps after reaching the summit. That raging river is like my wall of bricks. It feels unsurpassable and out of control. I’m standing on one side of the river, looking at the trail continuing on the other side, knowing that the summit is so close. But I can’t get to it because my fucking fear of feelings is fighting so hard to keep me safe from things that happened a long time ago. Fear. Fear of looking at things for what they are, sucking up the pain, acknowledging that the pain sucks, and then moving on, realizing that all that pain from the past is not going to kill me. And then watching as the river dissipates and the bricks crumble down. And the summit of Isolation becomes a summit of courage, of power and of connection. 

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Resiliency

Quotes about Resilience that Foster Children's Determination | Roots of Action

Trying to hike Mount Hale in the middle of winter seemed like a good idea when I started driving that morning. The ride up was like it always was. I enjoy the ride almost as much as I enjoy the hike. If I leave early enough, I can watch the night slowly turn into the day. I find peace watching the sun slowly wake up the world around me, first subtle and hesitant, and then bright and full of power and light. Mornings have always been easier for me. The darkness can be terrifying. But light brings safety and hope. Even a dreary, cold and rainy morning is better than the black hole of the night.

I’ve chosen a safe hike. And by that, I mean one that should not rile up the anxiety monster that lives in my stomach. Mount Hale in winter involves two miles of a road walk up Zealand Road, a road that has always led to wonderful memories and happy hiking.

But as I pull into my parking spot among all the snowmobiles and cross-country skiers, I find myself disgruntled and tired before I even get out of the car. I do NOT want to do this. I do not want to put myself through the irritating process of changing my socks, putting on the toe warmers, placing my feet into my boots, tying them up, fixing my pants, putting on my gaiters, strapping my snowshoes onto my pack and making sure my wallet, food, water and spikes are all in the correct place in my bag. All of that and I haven’t even gotten out of the car yet. It would be so easy to just turn the car back on, and drive home, expending little energy and enjoying the audiobook I’d been listening to. No one would judge me except for myself, and I could live with that judgement. 

But if I drive home, I can’t check this mountain off my list. And one of my goals this year is to hike three new mountains in the winter. And I’ve only done one. And if nothing else, I am goal-oriented, and I should at least get out of the car, cross the road and make my way over to the start of the hike. I figure I can always turn around once I get there. 

I find myself at the start of Zealand Road. I sigh. I have no idea what to put on my feet. I’m feeling lazy and unmotivated, so I choose the easy way. I put my spikes on my boots, even though I know it snowed last night and I most likely will need the snowshoes momentarily. But they are so nicely strapped to my pack and I will probably end up turning around anyway because, as previously mentioned – I do NOT want to do this. I start hiking. I torture myself long enough before I give in and accept the fact that even though I will most likely turn around soon, the road walk will be much easier in snowshoes. 

I start walking again. I thought maybe the snowshoes would change my mind and make me realize that I’m enjoying myself and do, in fact, want to be outside hiking. They don’t. I tell myself that I will walk until I reach the Sugarloaf Trailhead, and then I can either hike that trail up to a much smaller mountain, or I can turn around and go back home. I walk the mile to the trailhead, and realize if I’m going to hike a mountain, I don’t want to expend all this energy on something that won’t even let me check off a new box. I tell myself I might as well walk the next mile and a half to the Hale Brook Trailhead and reevaluate my situation. 

I get to the trailhead and don’t feel any better about my situation. I still do NOT want to do this. At all. But I’ve come this far and if I turn around now, I’m going to have to do this again someday. So I can check off the damn box. I reason, it’s only 2.2 more miles to the summit, and then I can turn around and walk back to the car. I can do anything for 2.2 miles. 

Except for 2.2 miles, the Hale Brook Trail kicks my ass. I’m trudging up this trail and giving new meaning to the term “slug”. I’m hating every step, and the only thing that keeps me from turning around is that I’ve come this far and do NOT want to have to do this again. I’m a prisoner to the damn box, but that’s how my life has always been. Set goals, reach them, set new goals and keep going. Even though every step of the way feels like walking through quicksand. Even though things feel pointless and meaningless, the relentless slog continues until I can check off a new box. That has been my definition of resiliency – to keep pushing forward even when the struggle threatens to bog me down and suffocate me. Mount Hale felt like it was going to strangle me first and then suffocate me with a pillow. My resiliency that day was not pretty. Resiliency that day meant taking ten steps, stopping to rest, convincing myself to take ten more steps, and repeat. Resiliency meant cursing the trail, berating myself for being out of shape and looking up to the sky hoping the weather would give me a reason to turn around. It meant listening to an audiobook to distract my mind away from how much I really did NOT want to do this. Resiliency that day meant a lot of things, but none of those things felt positive. Resiliency is a term we use to tell ourselves that the struggle we are going through will be worth it someday. We use it to remind ourselves that we have strength and courage, and that even though the journey is hard, we will come out of this on the other side and feel better about ourselves. Resiliency is bullshit. 

And then there I was at the summit. Mount Hale has no rewarding view. It is a pile of rocks. I knew what to expect. I shrugged my shoulders, took a picture of the rocks, and started back down the mountain. The pile of rocks was my symbol of resiliency that day. Underwhelming and boring. I rolled my eyes, relieved that I had kept walking, and could finally turn around and walk home. 

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Isolation (the feeling, not the mountain)

I’m angry again. Enraged. Bitter. Isolated. Forgotten. Lost.

Rehab ended two and a half weeks ago. It should have fixed me. I should be cured of the constant cravings, the constant need for everything to feel better. I should be satisfied with life. I should be able to reach some level of happiness and contentment without the assistance of substances. 

But I’m not fixed. And I feel like a failure. What’s worse, is that I’m scared everyone else thinks I’m a failure. No one understands that I still feel broken. I don’t feel courage. I feel like everyone else has moved on from the crisis I went through, and I am alone in the struggle that still hasn’t subsided. 

The comparison to hiking is obvious. We’ve started out on a hike. Me, my friends, my family, my coworkers, my healthcare providers. We all have backpacks filled with supplies. But mine feels so much heavier. My backpack is filled with cravings, pain, grief, loss and a longing for something to make the load feel just a little bit lighter. All of this is, obviously, invisible to everyone else. Bit by bit, they increase their lead, until they have hiked their way out of my view and slowly leave me behind to struggle alone.

I feel like I’m not trying hard enough. I should be okay. I should be proud. I should be content. But I’m not. I’m weaving my way through a life that at times feels murky and dark and suffocating. I may have graduated from rehab school, but I still feel broken. It feels like everyone is leaving me behind because they expect me to be fixed by now. And it’s lonely here, struggling up the trail by myself while I try to juggle everything on my back.

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Loop Trails

“If we’re willing to give up hope that insecurity and pain can be exterminated, then we can have the courage to relax with the groundlessness of our situation. This is the first step on the path.”

–Pema Chodron

I’ve found myself on a trail where I have absolutely no idea where I am in space. I’m disoriented. I’m panicking. My brain is swirling with chaos. My heart is pounding and the anxiety I am feeling is making me feel lightheaded and lost in the reality of the situation that I think I have found myself in.

The reality of the situation is that I am on the trail between Webster and Jackson, with no idea which way is home. I am anything but alone on this beautiful summer weekend day. It’s a five-mile loop hike, in one of the most popular areas to hike in Crawford Notch. If I could reign in my panic just a bit, and step outside of what I think is the reality of the situation, I would notice all of the people around me who seem to know where they are and where they are going. But I can’t. I am clinging too tightly to my need for security and routine. I am clinging too tightly to my need for solid ground. 

I fight. I resist the feeling of groundlessness I am experiencing. The fear is too big, and the panic is all-consuming. I have met the edge of what I feel I can handle, and my brain is threatening to shut down. Remaining in this one spot of the trail, allowing the chaos to sink into my soul, is unthinkable. I sprint down the trail in one direction, but the panic only increases because I have no idea where I’m headed. I run back to my spot. I still can’t tolerate being in this spot, so I run in the other direction. 

I have no idea whether I am running toward Jackson or Webster. I have a desperate need to understand which mountain I am headed for, despite the fact that regardless of the direction I head, I will still end up trekking back to my car. This is the beauty of a loop hike. The irony is that I feel I have lost my ground completely. Pema Chodron says that my fear is a messenger, telling me that I’m about to go into unknown territory. Currently, fear does not feel like my friend. Fear is pinning me down to the spot that I’m in. Fear is trying to convince me that I’m lost and that I am going to die here on this mountain. Fear is telling me to run in every direction. I run north – I feel fear. I run south; I find dread. I run east; I get angry. I run west; I lose hope. Each time I return to my spot on the trail, I find I cannot tolerate remaining in place while all these emotions threaten to kill me. 

The Buddhist nun tells me to let fear pierce me in the heart. The Buddhist nun is whacked in the head. Allowing myself to be pierced in the heart by fear is ridiculous. But nothing else seems to be working, so I take my backpack off and sit down on a rock. I let the fear wash over me, suffocate me, and pin me down. I cry. I keep crying. I can’t stop crying. There is a Tibetan word, “ye tang che”, that means totally and completely exhausted. It is meant to describe a feeling of complete hopelessness. This hopelessness is not a term we are familiar with. Our experience tells us that hopelessness is typically something we try desperately to avoid. But Buddhism tells us that we must embrace hopelessness. Embracing hopelessness means that we no longer have the energy for holding our trip together. 

            “We long to have some reliable, comfortable ground under our feet, but we’ve tried a thousand ways to hide and a thousand ways to tie up all the loose ends, and the ground just keeps moving under us. At every turn we realize once again that it’s completely hopeless – we can’t get any ground underneath our feet.” 

Addiction is like this. I desperately cling to something to hold onto. I cling to my routine. I cling to the hope that someday everything will finally feel like it is enough. I cling to a longing for satisfaction, for the ability to enjoy my own life as it is. I cling to pretty much anything except for the spot that I’m in. I hate the present moment, and I fear it. Addiction soothes this fear. Addiction acts as my babysitter. I use it as a way to escape my hope and fear. It alleviates the constant craving and clinging. Addiction is my best friend, my protector. Reaching for a drink, instantly grabbing for something to calm my panic, is based on the hope that I can control my suffering. In reality, abandoning this hope is the only path that can ease the suffering that I am trying to avoid through my addiction.

Being willing to give up hope that I can exterminate all feelings of fear, loss, panic, sadness and chaos allows room for courage. It takes courage to relax with the feeling of groundlessness that occurs when we abandon the hope of change. Relaxing into the present moment, despite my fear, is the only way forward. As I sit on my perch, halfway between two mountains and having no idea which mountain is which, I abandon hope. I relax into this moment of groundlessness. Suddenly, the fear isn’t the big monster that I think it is. The trauma is there. The trauma swirls all around me. It threatens to pierce my heart and pin me into the ground where I flounder like a fish out of water. I sit, and let it swirl. It doesn’t kill me. I stop resisting the fact that things end. I stop resisting the fact that everything is constantly changing. I stop resisting the urge to quell my fear of change with anything that might help. As I dissolve into this hopelessness, I feel a sense of calm. Everything changes – this is this only thing in life that is certain. Abandoning the need for everything to stay the same, is to abandon hope. So, I sit in my spot, with the knowledge that this is exactly where I am supposed to be. I am no longer lost – Webster, Jackson…either way, it doesn’t matter. The trail will bring me home.

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Will I be cold?

“To stay with that shakiness – to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness – that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic – this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves, is the path of the warrior.”

                                                                                                            Pema Chodron

I must be out of my mind. 

I had signed up to join a group climbing the winter route of the Lion Head trail on our way to summit Mount Washington. In January. Using an ice ax. 

Here I was, at seven o’clock in the morning, packed up and ready to go. It was in the single digits at the base of the mountain. At the BASE. With a forecast of 50-60 mph winds that would be joining us as well on our trek up the mountain. I was anything BUT in the present moment. My brain was moving faster than the wind. Will I be cold? Will these boots hurt? Will I be cold? What if I get tired? Will I be cold? What if my ice ax doesn’t hold and I hurtle down the mountain? Will I be cold? What if I slip in my crampons, slide down the mountain, taking the entire group with me, stab one of them in the eye with my crampons, and suffer the wrath of all the people I so desperately want to like me? 

And again…will I be cold? I hate being cold. I fight against it, do everything I can to avoid it, get angry at it, and swing my fists at it. Not the point of this post.

As we started walking, I could not get my brain to settle down. The thoughts were flying, my heart was pounding, and my stomach was experiencing what can only be described as evil butterflies flying around and bumping into each other. The reality is, I was terrified of what was coming. Yes, the present moment was not scary, after all, I was simply putting one foot in front of the other. But the present moment was being drowned out by future moments I knew would come true. The training we had received yesterday was to prepare us for what the winter route up Lion Head was famous for. It is the steepest of the trails that lead up Mount Washington. Go big or go home.

We arrive at the spot. Where the steep incline begins. My ice ax in hand and my crampons on my feet, I take the first step. And then the second. Ice ax, right crampon, left crampon and repeat. My focus on what I was doing was insane and intense. The sound around me faded into the background. Ice ax, right crampon, left crampon and repeat. And then, finally, I make it. I look around me. I see my friends who had gone before me, and the view in front of me. 

But then I’m flooded. How the hell am I going to get down? If I fall, it will be brutal and certainly end with my death. How will they get my body off the mountain? Will they die of hypothermia while trying to drag me down the trail? What if the fear stops me at the top and I’m immobilized and have to stay at the beginning of the steep section forever?

Stop. Those butterflies in my stomach had started up again. But where were they while I was axing my way up that last section? Nonexistent. There had been no pounding heart, no flying thoughts. There was only focus. Only the present moment. And the present moment wasn’t scary. It was actually…fun. 

As I sat there, looking out at the endless mountain ranges and blue skies, I realized I could tolerate this. I could tolerate the present moment. There was room for the fear. There was room for the misery. There was room for the pain and joy and confidence and grief. I could sit with these feelings. There was space for all of them. Each one felt different. Each one felt foreign. I allowed there to be room for each feeling, and also for the unknown. I settled into the feeling of groundlessness. To the feeling of the rug being pulled out from under me and myself gently floating into a sky full of uncertainty. During this hike, there were so many unknowns. I couldn’t know what would happen or how it would end. I couldn’t predict anything. I could only sit with this feeling of groundlessness, and gently attend to each feeling that came up. 

So, I sat in my spot at the top of the steep section, soaked in all of the feelings, and noticed how they didn’t kill me. I got up, gathered up my fear and misery and pain and joy and confidence and grief, told them each they were going to be okay, and went on my way up the mountain. I left the butterflies behind to fend for themselves.

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Madison

As I listen to the wind howl outside, I’m reminded of the many times I’ve hiked in weather conditions where I was sure the wind was going to blow me off the summit of the mountain. I remember the fear. I remember the anger. I remember how I felt like I couldn’t bear to be up there one more minute because I was sure the wind was going to kill me. Wind in the White Mountains is strange. The sun is shining, the skies are blue, the scenery is stunning. It is another world on the summit of these mountains. When the wind was blowing, I couldn’t enjoy this other world. I was too fucking angry. Angry at the wind for making me feel out of control as it tried to dictate my every move. Angry at the wind for pushing me around, for taunting me with its power, for scaring the shit out of me. 

For scaring the shit out of me. There it is. I wasn’t angry. This was fear. There was no need to be angry at the wind. It was pure nature. Nature is power, not evil. Nature is not trying to hurt you. Nature simply exists. 

But nature can be scary. And I was scared. I hate when things feel out of control. Not because I hate when things are seeming to control me. But because when my tightly controlled life with its routine and safety and comfort in knowing what is familiar, is threatened in any way, I feel helpless. And feeling helpless makes me angry. Which usually means I’m scared. 

Which, up here in the mountains with the powerful gusts of wind, I am.

My fear keeps me wound so tightly that I can’t feel all the good that surrounds me. I can’t see the beauty of my life. I can’t feel the sun on my face. I can’t feel the love that surrounds me everywhere. I can’t reach it. 

On the top of Mount Madison last summer, I found myself at the summit, in what I would later learn were 60 mph wind gusts. All I knew at that time is I didn’t want to be on that summit anymore. But I hadn’t reached the top yet; I was probably only 200ft away. I hated where I was. I hated this wind. I was angry that it was so fierce that each time I took a step, I would get jostled so that my foot wouldn’t land where I wanted it to. I’d either lose my balance, fall, or scrape the hell out of my legs. I found a large boulder and crouched down underneath it where the wind couldn’t get me. 

Under this boulder, in the calm, my anger dissolved, and I started to cry. I pretended I wasn’t scared. I resisted the fear, fought against it, tried to reason it away. 

But until you look it square in the face, and see it for what it is, fear will not go away. It is stubborn. It wants attention. Fear reminds you that there is something in your life that needs to be paid attention to. And it won’t go away until you lean into it, experience it, and begin to examine exactly what it is in your life that scares you.

I crawled out from under my boulder. The wind was howling, but the sun was beaming a new perspective down on me. I realized I couldn’t stop the wind. But I could lean into it. I could stop resisting and see it for what it was. I could lean into the fear. I didn’t want to, I wanted to shut down and crawl back under my rock. But I also wanted to reach the summit; I wanted to experience my life for all that I knew was waiting for me. 

I leaned in. I accepted the fear. I kept hiking. Mount Madison felt like it was going to break me that day.

But it didn’t. 

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Finding my voice

Throat Chakra: I express my truth | Charlene Murphy

Someone told me today that the word “addiction” comes from a Latin word that means “to have your voice taken away from you”. And it’s true. With addiction, we lose our words. We lose our voice. We forget that our voice is our calling to this life. Addiction robs us of the ability to speak truly from the heart. It robs us of our true emotions and robs us of our ability to express them. It robs us of our ability to connect…to nature, to activities, to people. 

Trying to think of something in nature, or something related to hiking, that robs you of your voice, is impossible. Nature is pure. Hiking is pure. They do not ask anything of you except that you be present when you are experiencing them. Hiking embraces you with unconditional love. It allows you to enjoy it, cherish it, rage against it, run from it, and return to it. Yet, it asks nothing in return. 

Hiking is nothing like addiction. Hiking gives me a voice. Addiction takes it away. The choice is obvious. 

I will hike.