A quiet, rainy day today. A perfect morning for my family to catch up on sleep and for me to sit down to write before tackling something reckless like housecleaning. I’m not entirely sure what I want to say today, but I’ll get started and see where it goes. Somehow, I hope to incorporate life direction, deep gurgles, and photos of squiggly trees. 

I have been lurching rather violently when considering my path forward next year. Part of me desperately wants to finally take a sabbatical from work, and spend six months walking, thinking, writing, doing Pilates, playing pickleball, sleeping, eating mindfully, and spending a summer hanging out with my family somewhere near mountains and lakes. There is precedent at work, and we can afford it. 

I have been wanting to do it for several years now, but each year I talk myself out of it because the timing isn’t good work-wise. I’m sick of being stressed and want time to be kind to my body, my spirit, and my family. We only have a few more summers before Elanor goes off to college, so if I want a summer off (which I do!), it needs to be this year or next. I want to walk El Camino de Santiago in May. I want to walk across England with Dorian and the girls in late June. (My chiropractor says I’ll be capable back-wise by then).

Then there is the other part of me who thinks that would be hugely irresponsible, selfish, and a tad crazy. It is not just the heavy weight of “shoulds” and “oughts”. A core part of me really wants to make things better where I am, and even though I haven’t been very effective so far, disappearing for six months would just make things worse for everybody else.  

Imagine we are a team of oxen harnessed to a cart that is stuck in a muddy rut. I keep pulling hard, and so are my fellow oxen, but it is not moving. I am frustrated and exhausted. Do I unhitch myself and rest for a while? Do I go find some other cart to pull elsewhere on a better road? Do I convince some other ox to harness himself to our cart in my place? Or do I find some smarter way for us to pull our cart out of the rut and get it rolling again? We will still be pulling hard but with the satisfaction of moving forward, and then I can consider unhitching for a while knowing that the cart can still keep moving without me.

Clearly the latter is what I want. But can it happen? If it won’t, then another year of pulling seems fruitless and I should unhitch and recharge. But if it can, what does that look like, how do I make it actually happen, and can I get the cart moving in time for a summer off with my family?

What a heavy and ponderous post! I did Google how to get carts out of ruts, and found this link for stuck golf carts whose five steps seem full of metaphor. Lighten the load. Make room. Shift gears. Deflate your tires. Roll out the carpet.

What does any of this have to do with photos of trees? Not much, but I’ll try anyway. I went for a walk in the town forest last Sunday (after Elanor rightly insisted) and took a bunch of photos. The fall colors were ablaze. What caught my eye was the contrast between the tall straight pine trunks, the deciduous riot, and the trees with squiggly limbs and branches. Somehow each was more beautiful in concert with the other. Without the structure of tall mature trees, the fall colors would be a cacophony. Without the variety and color of leaves, the straight trunks would be monotonous and boring. But my eye was always drawn to the squiggles. They were the bits that made the scene interesting.

Which am I? Which should I aspire to be? A tall straight mature pine tree providing steadiness, structure, shelter, and quality lumber? Or an interesting squiggle that serves no more lofty purpose than being truly herself, yet somehow makes the world brighter and better for it? 

Maybe the deep gurgles will tell me. But that will have to be a topic for another week.

I am combatting stress by paying attention to the many things I am grateful for. I look to my right and see Kira curled up with a book, and Whitby within arm’s reach, as well as the fantastic book “The Ten Thousand Doors of January” that I dove into and devoured this week. I have a comfy chair and blanket, and the pellet stove is warm and cozy, and we ate delicious butternut squash soup and apple crisp earlier this evening. Yes, I want to be more effective and productive. But life is also full of only marginally earned blessings, and it would be rude of me to fail to acknowledge and appreciate them due to self-absorbed angst. And loving them helps me unclench a bit.

My particular joys this week are fresh picked honey crisp apples, Burdick’s Chocolate, and a road trip with my friend Rebecca. We used her recent birthday as an excuse to escape for the day and make a pilgrimage to Burdick’s in Walpole, New Hampshire. It was a beautiful drive (in her Miata convertible!) on little roads winding through north-central Massachusetts and western New Hampshire, past old village greens with historic houses and white wooden churches and hillsides aflame with the colors of fall. We used to meet for hot chocolate at Burdick’s in Harvard Square, Cambridge, from time to time back when our schedules weren’t so packed with meetings. But we hadn’t been up to Walpole in years. It was absolutely lovely. They have a restaurant serving brunch (and hot chocolate!), and an adjacent shop filled with their exquisite chocolates, including their chocolate penguins and mice. I brought some home for my family.

Our original plan had been to go for a hike afterwards, but we passed a hilltop apple orchard on the way in and it called to us. We happened upon it again, and went in. The view across the orchard to the valley and hills beyond was delicious. So were the apples! The trees were laden, and it was sunny and quiet as we meandered through the orchard picking apples and absorbing the views. We passed a pond with wedding chairs and flowers set up next to it, and two small boys torn between obedience and the lure of splashing in it. We passed a bench overlooking a smaller view of fields and trees. We each picked a LOT of apples. Sometimes whims lead to the best discoveries.

A man in the parking lot overheard us talking about where to go next for a walk, and told us about Table Rock in North Walpole, on a hill overlooking the Connecticut River. It was a nice climb through golden trees, and the view from the top looked across the river and town to layers of hills beyond. But the most remarkable thing about it was the ladybugs. We were mobbed by them. I have never seen so many in my life, nor seen them so keen to crawl all over people. It was charming at first, but we didn’t linger long.

We drove home through the late afternoon and early evening sunshine, arriving back at Rebecca’s at sunset to meet up with our families and enjoy dinner and s’mores together. And we have been eating our way through the delicious mountain of apples ever since.

I am grateful to Dorian and the girls for letting me head to the hills for a day.  (They hiked Mt Pemigewasset when I was working on Columbus Day Monday, so they got some New England-y fall goodness, too, in addition to sharing in my haul of apples and chocolate). And I am very grateful to my friend Rebecca for many, many years of unwavering friendship and exuberant hunger for adventure. We need to heed the call of the open road from time to time. Sometimes we need to get a little lost in order to find what we didn’t know we were seeking.

It is cold and blustery outside, and has also just started to rain. Inside, Whitby is lounging fluffily next to me while I myself lounge on the sofa with a blanket near the warm pellet stove. Autumn is definitely upon us, with cold dark days ahead. My beautiful Dahlias have broken at the stems from the wind and their own weight, and the leaves are falling off the trees. It is a time of transition.

I’m not quite sure what I want to write about this week, but have two disparate themes in my head. One is the underrated joy of ordinary things. I’m thinking about time spent with my family last weekend as I drove the kids from place to place, took them shopping, and went to see the Downton Abbey movie. It is nice just to be together doing unremarkable things, and enjoying simple treats like fresh apple cider, cider donuts, and monkey bread from Calareso’s. And ice cream and chocolate.  Hmm.. maybe we need more exercise-related simple joys and fewer food ones, but did I mention it is blustery and raining? Family pickleball was fun a couple of weeks ago. Comte cheese is delicious.

When I was heading off to hand bells and choir rehearsal on Tuesday, and told my family I was venturing out into the great unknown, they rightly pointed out that I was just walking a few blocks in Reading. So I said I was venturing into the pretty good known. Then I stepped outside and saw this spectacular sunset.

Sometimes the pretty good known really is pretty great, and less known than we assume. We just need to be open and notice. (And bells and singing with the same people for years are also a joy).

The other theme in my head is perfectionism. Elanor and I have both been struggling with this recently. A Harvard Business Review article on mentoring perfectionists says that girls are prone to “inherit” perfectionism from their mothers, so now I am doubly guilty. It also says we can be very resistant to seeking or accepting help, given our desperate need to appear flawless. I think that probably makes us very irritating. I think I readily admit to having flaws, but don’t know what to do about them. I have eased up on myself a bit about “steering the boat” at work, given that I am steering multiple boats simultaneously in the fog with not enough oarsmen and different people hollering about where I should head first and it not always being clear who actually is responsible for what. I should endeavor to improve, but also not beat myself up too much, and accept that we are all human.

I don’t know that there is too much interesting to say on that front. And I don’t know that I can tie these two themes together in some insightful way to make this post less sprawling. Maybe a common theme is slowing down and paying attention – getting out of my self-critical head and out of my auto-pilot and noticing what is in front of me right now – acknowledging the patches of flowers amongst all the weeds, and the moments of community amongst all the busy-ness. I am honored to spend my time with some pretty remarkable people both at home and at work doing some pretty interesting things, and should savor that even while we are dashing from place to place.

Google found me a poem about ordinary things, which I really like. It also introduced me to the author, Pat Schneider, who has made a life helping people find their authentic voice through her writing workshops, and has a book “How the Light Gets In” about writing as a spiritual practice that looks really appealing.

I’ll end with her poem, and a not-neatly-tied-up blog post, and tell myself that that’s ok. Maybe I’ll spend the evening curled up with my family re-watching Downton Abbey. Or make more apple crisp. Or ponder the lovely repetition of stairs and the generosity of a window.

The Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

In case you are sick of my gushing-about-how-wonderful-my-life-is posts, here is an antidote.

Last week, I lied when I said I didn’t feel guilty about finding so much of my life satisfaction in outdoorsy adventures with my family rather than doing noble deeds. I feel guilty a lot. The times when I am most down on myself are when I feel that I am not being useful, and that I am letting other people down. I’ve been feeling that way pretty intensely recently, and remembering happy adventures doesn’t make that go away. I have an apple crisp baking in the oven that I made for my family, and that is helping a teeny bit.

I think it is probably one of our deepest longings to be of benefit to others, and to pull our weight in some large shared endeavor. That said, my cat Whitby is contentedly lounging next to me, and clearly feels no such compunction. So there is a cat exemption. But I think it applies to most humans.

Kira and I volunteered with the Reading Trails Committee today, spending about three hours hacking away at phragmites (frag mighties) and clearing a new trail in the Maillet Conservation Area. It is really satisfying to have a job that just requires physical effort and shows such tangible results (other folks were doing the skilled labor of building a bridge – Kira and Dorian hauled lumber for that a few weeks ago).

Dorian is away at Otherworld for the weekend, and so I find myself doing a lot more kid schlepping, cooking, dishes, and piano and homework reminding than usual. That, too, is straightforward and satisfying.

In college, I loved to row crew. I’m happy to haul on an oar for hours (when my back isn’t hurt), with someone yelling at me to pull harder and my main task to dig deep and stay focused and move in harmony with my boat-mates. I never wanted to be the coxswain, with the responsibility of yelling and steering and making the team’s efforts not be wasted.

I am struggling at work, because in my role I need to be more of the coxswain – providing direction, forging harmony and united effort, being decisive. It’s not me, but it needs to be, and I need to figure out how to improve. Many people are depending on me, and it is eating me up inside.

I know what Mom would say.  “Oh, Kate. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Make yourself a cup of tea and sit outside for a bit”. Auntie Pauline is my greatest cheerleader in her absence (thank you Auntie Pauline!) and might say that she wished I could see what I brilliant genius I am. My no-nonsense Pilates instructor would say “Quit your whining and just steer the damn boat”.

I don’t have a good answer. But I do have a lovely photo. This is the stream near my house, and the place where I’d love the Reading Trails Committee to build a trail someday.

I also have a poem. I particularly like this passage. I was “the ox” on my freshman crew team, and that was a good thing.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

Here is the full poem, “To be of use” by Marge Piercy.

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element, 
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Every now and then, being disorganized and not-on-top-of-things pays off big time. Last Sunday’s ocean sailing excursion on a gorgeous 42 foot wooden yawl was one such occasion. We continued our streak of storing up family outdoorsy goodness adventure memories like squirrels hoarding nuts for winter, and the universe continued its recent streak of blessing us with far better weather than we deserve. And so it was that Dorian, the kids, my brother Richard, Lisa, and I found ourselves skimming through the waves with unseasonably good winds, smooth seas and warm sunshine, as we sailed from Salem harbor past Gloucester and back again with the gracious crew of the Sandrala.

This all began back in April, when my community chorus included a silent auction fundraiser as part of its 100^th anniversary gala. One auction item was a day of sailing for six on the Sandrala, to be scheduled sometime between June and September. Richard’s birthday was coming up, and I know he loves classic boats (the Sandrala was built in 1940), and I had fond memories of a weekend of sailing with him on the Wendameen pre husband and kids. So I bid, and I won.

Fast forward several months, and through some combination of packed schedules and my scatter-mindedness, it was mid-August and we hadn’t scheduled our sailing trip. I finally reached out to the owners and we agreed on a day in early September, with last Sunday as the backup date. The early September date ended up with 13 foot seas due to hurricane Dorian aftermath, and so we went with the 22^nd. It turned out to be the best sailing day of the summer (and only a couple of weeks before the end of the sailing season). I had been so worried that my tardiness would botch the trip, and yet again I was spared from learning my lesson the hard way.

It is hard to describe the joy of sailing. The moment when the motor is turned off and the sails fill with wind, and the boat surges along with the only sounds being the wind in the sails and waves on the hull, with the occasional conversation and seagull. The glint of the sun off the water and the white sails, and the rolling motion of the boat with the waves. The warm wind off the shore and the cold spray of the waves as we dip our feet in the water during a good tilt. The fresh perspective and open vistas of a whole new watery world to explore. The lighthouses and the slalom course of lobster buoys.

The physical pressure of the wind on the sails felt as pressure on the steering wheel as the boat tilts and responds on a taut upwind tack. The feel of the boat responding to the wind and the water and the movement of the wheel, more as a dynamic collaboration than absolute control. The balancing of where the wind can take you versus where you want to go, and cutting as close to the line as you can. The combination of peace, beauty and exhilaration that feels comparable in my mind to galloping across a shallow lagoon with my grinning family on Icelandic horses (and hoping not to fall off).

The owners of the boat were incredibly kind, knowledgeable and generous. The husband is a carpenter by trade and spent years restoring the boat to its current glory. Richard, Elanor and I all took long turns steering, and Elanor was especially smitten. Kira tried steering, too, but was happiest dipping her feet in the waves and enjoying the view from the bow (and eating the delicious cookies the wife baked in the tilting oven below deck, as well as the fruit and other yummy food she provided). Dorian was a good sport, and only turned green when I was steering.

I don’t know when we will have the opportunity to sail again. For now, I am content store this away in my happy exhilarating family adventure memory collection, to draw upon when life gets me down.

I had been thinking of writing some clever things about sailing being a metaphor for life, zig-zagging towards where you want to go, responding to changing winds and being flexible about your course. But I’m not feeling metaphorical right now.

I had been feeling guilty about my tremendous privilege, and deriving so much satisfaction from enjoying pleasurable things instead of doing noble deeds. My inspiring cousin Rachel has just been volunteering with Turning Tides Ending Local Homelessness, continuing her tradition of using her skills and passion for good. I have several friends who just made major career changes after many years (ties into the tacking metaphor I failed to expound upon), and now are pouring all of their energy and passion into new work endeavors. Maybe I should feel guilty. But I don’t really. Maybe it is because I am sharing these experiences with my family, and helping them feel more connected to the beauty and majesty of the natural world. I am combating Nature Deficit Disorder! Part of the joy of sailing and hiking is feeling both small and large at the same time – we are one small piece of a vast, wondrous, and interconnected whole.

I got distracted at various points writing this blog post, but made the happy discovery that Sailing Ships Maine exists, and the Wendameen is now being used to take teens on multi-day sailing adventures. Their web site also includes this quote from Albert Einstein:

 “A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. We experience ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest – a kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from the prison by widening our circle of inclusion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty… The true value of a human being is determined primarily by the measure and the sense in which they have obtained liberation from the self. … We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if humanity is to survive.”

Albert Einstein – 1954

I’m not so sure this measures the true value of a human being, and I am still disproportionately fond of my immediate family, but I think Einstein has a point (and sounds very Buddhist). I think that sailing is one exhilarating means to widen and open our hearts to the world beyond ourselves, and if the Internet agrees, it must be true!

Let me start by saying that poems about middle aged love are hard to come by, and the ones I have found miss the important bits for me. They talk about losing the fire and passion of youth, or of the difficulty of daring to trust again after being bruised and battered by life.

None of the ones a quick Google search gave me speak about the deep joy that comes from decades of shared life, and how doing the things we love together is made richer by the accumulation of memories of doing those same things together in the past. Nor do they speak of the joy of being married to a man who may be grayer, balder, and a tad more arthritic than he once was, but who is still steady, kind, loyal, funny, responsible, deeply good and indelibly Dorian.

Dorian and I celebrated our 16^th wedding anniversary last weekend, so these things are on my mind.

We celebrated the occasion by taking the girls and my mother-in-law Charlotte up to Franconia, New Hampshire, to stay at our beloved Kinsman lodge and to do our customary anniversary Lincoln-Lafayette ridge hike in the White Mountains.

We hadn’t been to Kinsman lodge in about three years, but when we arrived, the memories of all our previous stays came flooding back. It is a lovely and homey place to stay even for first time visitors, but is even better with all of the memories of previous visits when the kids were small, or not-quite-so-small, and of extended stays with extended family and shorter visits with friends. Many a day of hiking has started with the inn keeper Sue’s delicious breakfasts and ended sitting on the front porch watching the sunset over the fields.

In some ways, this time was no different. Sue is as warm and capable a host as ever, the lodge is as clean and cozy as we remember, and we enjoyed skipping rocks by the river and managed our Lincoln-Lafayette ridge hike one more time (this time with kids in tow).

But in other ways, everything had changed. Last time we visited, Sue’s husband Chett and Charlotte’s husband Jerry were still alive. Both men died of cancer within the past three years. Both men loved the place and are inextricably linked to it in our hearts. Being there reminded us of all the happy times we have spent with them there, and enough time has past that the memories filled us with deep gratitude rather than gaping pits of misery (at least for me).

It is a wonderful thing to have shared memories in special places. The places remind us of the people, and the people of the places. Dorian and I have accumulated so many over the years, some just the two of us, many with our kids, and many with friends and extended family. Dorian is near the center of almost all of them, sometimes beaming, sometimes exasperated, and always mine.

Early on when we were dating, Dorian commented that we observed life through the same third story window. I think that is still true. We sometimes gaze at each other, but what we mostly do is gaze out at the world side by side. It is a cozy room, a nice window, and an extraordinary view. And sometimes we venture out, together.

So I didn’t find my poem, but I was reminded of a reading from our wedding, which has borne true over time.

A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather, the sun, and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly

“Henry V”, William Shakespeare

I have found my good Hart!

I also found a quote from Chett’s memorial service, which speaks to a life well loved and well lived.

“That man is a success – who has lived well, laughed often and loved much, who has gained the respect of intelligent men and the love of children, who has filled his niche and accomplished his task, who leaves the world better than he found it, who has never lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty or failed to express it, who has looked for the best in others and gave the best he had.”

anonymous

By this account, Chett, Jerry, and Dorian are among the most successful of men. And I am honored to have walked a while alongside each of them, including our times together at Kinsman Lodge.

[for the beginning of this saga, start with “Week 32: Wham! Oof! Splat”]

Everyone told the inventor of the Mt Washington Cog Railway that he was crazy. Maybe he was, but I’m glad he ignored his nay-sayers and built his impossibly steep railway up to the top of the tallest mountain in New England with the worst weather in the world. Thanks to him, I was able to join up with Dorian, Elanor and Kira in pursuit of my own crazy goal of finishing the Presidential Traverse with my family.

The train ride was both spectacular and festive, thanks to several people celebrating birthdays and our warm, funny, and very informative guide. She told us this was one of the best three days of the summer Mt Washington weather wise, and that we could see for a hundred miles in every direction.

The track ran parallel to the hiking trail as we neared the summit, and lo and behold there was Kira jumping up and down and waving to me! (It turned out that she didn’t know which train I was on, so she waved to all three that went by. Elanor had been waving, too, from further up the trail). My coach-mates were surprised and delighted to find out she was my daughter.

The top of Mt Washington was packed with people – those who had driven up the auto road, or taken the train, or the much smaller number of hikers. I didn’t care. My usual snootiness about “earning” a summit by hiking up was gone. I was just happy that so many people with so many different physical circumstances were able to enjoy it on this glorious day (including me!).

I found the “trail” that Dorian and the girls would be using to get to the summit – trail in this case meaning some cairns placed on a field of boulders, and very slowly and carefully clambered down to meet them. They were tired, hungry, but very happy. We took our picture at the summit then went to the nearby café to get pizza. I was feeling good, and told the train people that I would NOT be using my return ticket back down the mountain.

Dorian has written eloquently and extensively about the Presidential Traverse in his own blog, including lots of photos and a description of the trail. I encourage you to read it! I won’t recount everything again here, but can’t help myself from sharing and gushing a bit.

We hiked down to the Lake of the Clouds hut, arriving 20 minutes before dinner. The 1 ½ miles was much rougher in practice than I had imagined when considering contingency plans, though the rest of my family insisted that it was way better than what passed for a trail on the summit north of Mt Washington. I’m really glad I didn’t end up needing to hike back up that trail with a screaming back.

It is hard to describe just how gorgeous the view was, and how many layers of mountains were visible in all directions. So I’ll show you instead:

A geophysics professor from Trinity College told us all about glaciers and the mountains while Kira photographed the sunset. He was terrific, and explained why the rocks and terrain were so different above 5300 feet (way more bouldery and flecked with mica, with rocks significantly older than the 12,000 year-old limit of lower elevations). He and Elanor set up a telescope when the stars came out, and we saw the moons of Jupiter and rings of Saturn. We had to drag Elanor back inside well after lights-out, as she gazed at the gazillion stars overhead and the clear swath of the Milky Way.

My back held up okay through the rest of the trip. I avoided sitting for too long, or bending over to pick things up, and felt stiff and took lots of Naproxen, but I felt good when I was walking.

The hike south along the ridge line the next day was five miles long and glorious. The footing was good (being under 5300 feet) and the layers upon layers of mountains were still beautiful. None of the summit ascents were too steep or too long, but they were steep and long enough to be satisfying to me! Dorian hurried us along, but we still lingered a bit to soak it all in, and took lots of photos. The kids were terrific and clearly enjoyed themselves.

We arrived at the Mitzpah Springs hut 10 minutes before the rain started and we spent much of the afternoon playing cards. Our hike out the next day was full of sunbeams filtered through trees and a good, steady, not-too-hard-on-the-knees two mile descent back to the Highland Center.

Jill was right. I belonged there with my family. I know we were incredibly lucky, as if Providence were smiling upon us. But what about the soggy souls who came into the Mitzpah Springs hut part way through dinner, cold and drenched after summiting Mt Washington and hiking the ridge in the rain, and the folks who had planned to reach the summit the next day amidst sleet and hail?

The will of the universe is beyond me. I am just very, very grateful and glad that I listened to my heart this time rather than my fears, and that my back and the weather held long enough. I will remember this hike for a long, long time.

[Continuation of Week 32: Wham! Oof! Splat]

When hiking in the White Mountains, you often have to choose how much to trust the traction of your boots on steeply sloped rock ledges. Trust too much, and you risk falling or worse. Trust too little and you end up like me, slowly picking your path to minimize risk and trying to always have a small tree trunk or well-placed hiking pole as backup in case of slippage. That is one of the many reasons the kids bound ahead of me. I like pushing physical boundaries, but only with a rock solid backup plan. Most of the time.

I was feeling pretty down upon my return to the Highland Lodge, after sending Dorian and the girls off on their Traverse and spending the bulk of the day dealing with our minivan. My back was unhappy from driving the car around the wilds of New Hampshire and sitting around the Honda dealership. I was unhappy that my spiral of injury, inactivity and weight gain was lurching inexorably downwards and preventing me from sharing this adventure with my family.

I had about two hours until dinner and decided that since my back was hosed anyway, I might as well see it if could handle a gentle hike up Mt Willard. It is 1.6 miles each way, but with relatively little elevation gain, decent footing as mountains go, and a disproportionately grand view from the top. I figured I’d stop after an hour and turn around and head back (or sooner if necessary), and that I would not carry any pack.

My back held up pretty well with the walking. It definitely preferred hiking to sitting, especially with two hiking poles. I found that I was making pretty decent time and I reached the summit in just over one hour. I wasn’t brave enough to sit down to the enjoy the views (since I wasn’t very confident I’d be able to get up again), but I took some photos and then headed back down. I headed into dinner feeling less glum and more determined to make the best of the opportunities I did have. I enjoyed their forest berry pie and a glass of pinot grigio on the patio, and an evening stroll around the pond.

I had some options regarding meeting up with Dorian and the girls on top of Mt Washington the next day. I booked a round trip cog train ride, reaching the summit at 2:30 and heading back down at 3:30. The safest bet was to take the train as normally scheduled. But it was also possible to go standby on a later return train that day or the next day, weather and space permitting. It was a 1 ½ mile hike from the summit of Mt Washington to the Lake of the Clouds hut, where we were booked to stay overnight.

So if I reached the summit and was feeling good, I could walk with my family to Lake of the Clouds hut, stay overnight, and return the next morning. Worst case I’d have to clamber back up the 1000 vertical feet of rocky boulders on my own with screaming back pain and all the trains would be full, but I’d have all day to do it weather permitting.

It wasn’t until one of my roommates prayed for me that I allowed myself to consider attempting the whole rest of the traverse with my family – going on five miles from Lake to the Clouds to the Mitzpah Springs Hut, and then hiking out a few miles and 2000 vertical feet the following day.

The Highland Lodge has four bed bunkrooms, and the room I had shared with my family the previous night was now shared with three kind, friendly middle-aged women. They were all great. One is a retired teacher handling logistics for her husband’s Appalachian Trail through hike (dropping food for him in various places, buying replacement gear etc). Another was visiting a friend nearby. Jill works as a counselor helping disadvantaged children.

When I told her about my conundrum, she shyly asked if I minded if she prayed for me. She said she felt awkward asking, but was moved to see a loving family doing things right, when so many of the kids she works with don’t have that. When I said my injury probably served me right for not staying in shape, she said no, she was sure Jesus wanted me to be up in the mountains hiking with my family.  

She put her hands on me and prayed out loud for my back to be healed so I could join them. She seemed disappointed when I didn’t feel any warmth or tingling in my back and tried again. My back was not cured, but something shifted within me. I didn’t know if Jesus or the universe wanted me to be with my family up in the mountains, but I knew that Jill did. And I knew that I did, more than anything.

I started to imagine what could go right, instead of focusing entirely on mitigating what could go wrong. I still thought about backup plans if my back went out at different points along the way. The options were painful but not life-threatening. The trail difficulty for the southern half of the traverse seemed reasonable (the northern half is much more difficult). The weather forecast was clear.

I decided to trust my boots’ traction on the steep rocky ledge: in this case, to have faith that my back would hold, or at least that it might hold, and that it was worth trying. I hiked the short but steep and scrambly Elephant’s Head in the morning to confirm I was ok with steepness, bought a lightweight backpack to carry minimal gear, and booked a shuttle to get my car from the cog railway station two days later. I then drove to the Mount Washington “Railway to the Moon” to catch my train and reunite with my family.

[Continued in “Week 34: My Traverse”]

Wham! Oof! Splat! Waah! That is the sound of my Presidential Traverse dreams hitting middle age dodgy back reality.

My back went out while my family and I were staying at our favorite AMC Gorman Chairback Lodge up in Maine, three days before we were scheduled to drive to New Hampshire to start the Presidential Traverse. We had hiked Third Mountain carrying full traverse pack weight (two liters of water, food, clothes, sleep sacks), and I had felt ok.

(By the way, Third Mountain is a fairly short but glorious hike featuring abundant wild blueberries and Appalachian Trail through hikers closing in on Mt Katahdin. It also boasts a rocky ledge with beautiful views of Long Lake and layers of surrounding mountains. The trail junction shown below featured prominently in previous misadventures.)

We sat around playing bridge and hearts for a long time that evening, and when I stood up my back decided it was finally fed up with everything I had recently put it through. The next couple of days involved a lot of naproxen, me trying to sit and stand as little as possible, playing cards while lying on my side in bed, lying on my back in the wood sauna, and me being upset that I wasn’t better already. It also involved a lot of rain. 

Dorian and the girls were wonderful throughout, the lake and lodge were still beautiful, the loons still sang, and Elanor and Kira did a fair bit of canoeing, kayaking and paddle-boarding during the gaps in the rain. I managed to get into a canoe with Kira on our last morning and enjoy a gentle paddle on the still, echoey lake.

As we departed Gorman Chairback Lodge for the 5-ish hour drive to the AMC Highland Center near Mt Washington, we discovered that our minivan had been leaking power steering fluid and was increasingly difficult to steer. We hadn’t checked fluids before we left home, and hadn’t thought much of some of the mild odd sounds the car made on the drive up. It was a Sunday, most auto mechanics and auto parts stores were closed, and it turns out that Hondas are very particular about what kind of steering fluid they can use. Hijinks ensued!

What actually ensued was a 40 minute drive on the rutted dirt road out of the lodge with very heavy steering, a stop at a gas station by Moosehead Lake that only sold steering fluid that said “DO NOT USE IN HONDAS!”, another stop at an outfitter a few miles uphill that sold some steering fluid that did not come with that warning (but was still not Honda approved) at which we foolishly only bought one bottle, and then a long drive during which we happened to find an open auto parts store about two hours in and stocked up on several more bottles because we had already gone through that one bottle. We arrived at the Highland Center a few hours later with steering fluid to spare.

I identified very strongly with our poor leaky minivan. At 14 years old and over 120,000 miles, it has seen better days. It has been steady and reliable throughout most of our married life, and now has some dings and rust patches and various broken bits that would be difficult and/or expensive to fix. Gone are the days when we can just take it working for granted. It needs TLC. It needs us to do things like check on it before big trips, and take minor odd noises seriously.

My body is much the same way. It used to be strong and reliable and easily taken for granted. Nowadays, it seems like whenever I push it hard, or even not-very-hard, it breaks. It needs more than the sporadic attention and maintenance it is getting. My neck and shoulder felt a bit wonky after my Allagash canoe trip, my back complained after pickleball with my family. These were all easy enough to push through, but ignoring them didn’t make them go away.

I was really upset about not being able to join my family for the Presidential Traverse, and mad at myself for not having been much more consistent with back exercises in the months leading up to it. I had to remind myself that I actually was really lucky with the timing. Far better for my back to go out before starting the hike than during it (particularly the first two long hard days), and thank goodness it held up during my canoe trip with Elanor (particularly with the bog-hopping and portaging involved). Still, that was only so much comfort when looking out at the beautiful Long Lake that I couldn’t paddle on, and when sending Dorian and the girls off on a four day epic and challenging hike I had talked them into without me. I hoped Dorian would be ok.

So it was with a heavy heart that I drove Dorian and the girls to the Mt Madison trailhead, stopping to refill steering fluid along the way. (We were originally going to take a shuttle to the trailhead, but I drove them so they could get an earlier start given the forecast for thunderstorms later in the day). I told them I’d book a train to the top of Mt Washington and would be there from 2:30-3:30 the next day if my back was up for it.

I then drove to a nearby auto shop that redirected me to a large Honda dealership with a service department miles away that could service our poor minivan immediately (thank goodness again!). It was pretty much hemorrhaging steering fluid at this point. I perused new cars while waiting for the minivan to be ready. We could replace our minivan with a hybrid all-wheel-drive crossover SUV with a panoramic sunroof and fancy safety features!

But after a few hours the minivan was fixed, it was driving fine, and the two of us made our way back to the Highland center together (where I had managed to book an extra night for myself). The two of us still have some more miles in us, aches and leaks and all.

[Continued in Week 33: Faith]

A short post today, to keep up my weekly streak. Dorian, the girls and I hiked up Mount Cannon on Sunday, in preparation for the Presidential Traverse. It was 2200 feet in 2 miles, so a pretty good preparation for 3500 feet in 4 miles on day 1 of the Traverse (hiking up to Madison hut). Everyone did really well, including me, so now I am feeling cautiously optimistic about our chances. I am willfully ignoring the fact that my legs feel like rubber again today and that the Traverse will include 3 more days of hiking after the first day, including summiting Mt Washington, rubber legs or no.

We got to the summit in 2 hours and 40 minutes at a comfortable pace with plenty of rest stops, and all of our lungs and legs held up well and nobody felt faint. It was a perfect hiking day, with cool temperatures and a breeze, and we sipped Gatorade. We were also fortified by another Polly’s Pancake Parlor breakfast! My mother-in-law Charlotte joined us for Polly’s and rode the aerial tramway to the summit to enjoy the views. We saved our knees by all taking the tram back down the mountain, which was really nice and saved enough time to let us meet up with friends for dinner.

In non-hiking-prep news, I just read a couple of interesting articles about goals. One of them says that it is a bad idea to tell people what your goals are – that the very act of publicizing them makes you less likely to accomplish them.  The other one says that setting big ambitious goals is a bad idea, and people often feel let down once they have accomplished them (such as running a marathon). It is better to strive for continuous incremental improvement instead. Oh well. I personally find the public commitment to write in my blog motivating. And if we successfully complete the Presidential Traverse, it is hard for me to imagine feeling anything other than lucky and proud (in addition to achy and exhausted). We’ll see.

More in a couple of weeks, post-traverse-attempt!