Category: Hiking

Some days the hiking comes easy. When I played college sports, it was called being in the zone, so I guess it’s similar to that. My steps are smooth, my breathing is even, and my mind is present with my surroundings.

Some days, though, the hiking is just plain hard. The baggage feels like too much. The pit in my stomach is so deep I feel like if I take one more step I’m going to tumble down into a hole I can never hope to crawl out of.

Today was one of those days. I had lofty goals. I wanted Mount Madison. And I wanted the King Ravine trail. I was riding a high from a few weeks ago when I went up and down Beaver Brook trail and then did the Baldfaces and Eagle Crag the next day. I was in the zone that weekend. Today was very different. There was this pit. I couldn’t shake it. Nothing I could do would get rid of it.

I hiked a mile with that pit. It grew larger with every step I took. I finally sat down on a rock, ate a pop tart, and gave up on my original plan. I tried a different plan, one that didn’t involve a mountain. But as I started hiking out the new trail I had picked, that didn’t work either. Now, not only was I crying, but my anxiety was so out of control I was sure that if I took one more step the trail was going to plunge me into mortal danger and I would be lost in the mountains forever. It was a long drive back home.

That pit sucks.

That pit is hard to understand, but I’ve come to realize that it encompasses feelings of sadness, grief and loss. Sadness for all the pain that these past two years have held. The enormity of what I’ve been through seems to have slowly crept its way into my consciousness. There are not words strong enough to describe my experience, but what I do know is that the desperation, emptiness and gut-wrenching depression felt intolerable and impossible to escape. I feel the intensity of that experience as if it was yesterday. Somehow, the past still feels like the present.

It is a stark contrast to where I am now, and perhaps this is why I feel it so deeply. Today, my emotions are light, my soul has more moments of contentment than it does depression, and I see free time as areas of opportunity. Moments of hope are more common than moments of dread, and the phrase “live your best life” no longer seems like some stupid cliche.

Even today, as I struggle with being able to accept where I am and owning the happiness that I have, I remember what it is like to not have any of this. And the sadness I feel for all those years I struggled is part of what makes up this pit.

The other part of the pit is grief. Feelings of loss for time I can never get back. Feelings of loss for time I feel was wasted away. I think the reason I feel this grief so intensely today is because I understand how quickly time can be taken away. Today, the time I have is filled with moments of joy, peace and anticipation for the moments ahead of me. The time isn’t perfect, but it is so much more than tolerable. And I grieve the loss of so many years when it wasn’t.

The next time I hike, I will honor that pit. And after I pay that pit the respect it deserves, I will gather up my feelings and keep walking.

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.

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. 

“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.

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. 

August 14th, 2006: I had been dreading this hike for years before I was actually able to complete it.  I normally hike by myself…mostly because I enjoy the solitude but also because until recently, I had no one in my life to hike up these higher summits.  As much as I value my alone time, I knew that an 18 mile hike in one day would be much more pleasant with company.  Not to mention I have a great deal of anxiety on a good day, and the thought of this hike by myself was enough to send me flying into a panic.  I finished 47 of the 48 by the summer of 2015.  By the summer of 2016, I had managed to rope my girlfriend’s two teenage sons into tackling Owl’s Head with me.  I channeled their teenage bravery, and off we went. It took us 10 hours, and the last 3 miles on the Lincoln Woods Trail was one of the longest 2.9 miles of my life, but we finished.  I will never forget that feeling I had while I was running toward the cairn on the summit of Owl’s Head; it was one of the sweetest moments of my life. It meant that I had conquered, even if only for that one day, the heavy weight of anxiety that seems to limit me in so many ways in my life.  But for that day, on that hike, I was finally able to enjoy that victory, and I have carried those emotions with me every day since then.