When the universe closes a door, somewhere it opens a window. OK, I know that’s not the exact quote. It comes from The Sound of Music when the main character, Maria, is forced to face the fact that she’s not supposed to be a nun. Love, for her, is of a more risky nature, and as she becomes a governess of a musical family of nine children, she discovers that the path she feared the most was the one that was right for her.
I haven’t been on many trails recently. Between work, cycling, and all the other minutiae of life I actually feel like I don’t have a lot time to do what I love the most. When I think about that, it makes me wonder: what am I spending my time doing, exactly?
In addition to that question, something I’ve discovered recently is that friends are gifts from the universe because they offer new perspectives, ask unexpected questions and offer other ways of looking at life. Or, they help to answer the question: “What have I been doing?”
Their answers are usually pretty blunt. “Um… you’ve been working out. You’ve been working. You’ve been blotto.”
Like a lot of us, I’ve been stuck in the house for basically a year, and so when a friend of mine who had never been hiking before asked me if we could go hiking together, I decided I needed to close the front door of the house behind me and step into the world I knew and loved so much before life got complicated, and I forgot this essential part of myself.
The Trailhead: Beginning the Journey
What it looks like (basically) when you start hiking the trail to the summit of Mt. Rose. The wildflowers were in full bloom, which was an added treat.
The trail starts at 8,911 feet from a parking lot on Mt. Rose Summit. I used to run this trail back when I was a long-distance runner. It was my favorite because no matter how hot it was in the valley below, the temperature up here was guaranteed not to be so intense. I also didn’t mind the climbs much- it was just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Slow or slower: this was a journey about getting where you wanted to go, eventually.
When I ran this trail, all I had was a Timex watch. I didn’t care about pace. It was just this epic journey: through the forest, through the meadow, climbing the ridge to that treeless moonscape. And what I found there, blurred and wordless, was my strength. The faith I could have in myself that I couldn’t feel or access in normal life. But, I sure as shit felt it there.
Maybe I was (am?) hardcore. What I believe: I am a person who embodies whatever inner truth sings in my bones. I act it out by running. Dancing. Cycling. And every once in a while, the inner and outer worlds collide. That happened a lot on that Mt. Rose trail ten years ago when I was not anybody really remarkable at all.
What I know: I found my soul on that trail.
Our shoes, taken at the summit of Mt. Rose basically tell the story: this wasn’t an easy hike and hot damn did we ever get dirty and sweaty.
Ambitions (Sometimes It’s Too Much)
The meadow on the way to the summit was in full bloom.
We might have been a bit ambitious. My friend and I are members of Orange Theory Fitness (OTF), and we did an hour-long class pre-hike.
OMG why?
I know, I know. It’s stupid. So like three miles of hill sprints before a 10-mile strenuous hike.
But, as they say: why not?
So, that’s what we did: some hill sprints and a bunch of lunges before climbing the third tallest peak in the Tahoe Basin. It was warm out, but honestly not bad at the trailhead, which begins right on the side of Mt. Rose Highway.
It was maybe in the high 70s when we parked at the full parking lot filled with cars. A group of three girls, having just completed their hike, were making sandwiches with the back of their SUV hatch open. They were maybe in their twenties: tan, fit and carefree. One of them lay her bread flat on the pavement. (Oh, to be young again. Or, maybe not- ICK!)
The version of me that ran on this trail was older than that. It wasn’t until I was 27 that I started running on a regular basis. And that was more for sanity’s sake than for reasons that had to do with racing. However, once I had a solid year of running miles under my feet, I bought a book on long-distance running for beginners because I did, actually, want to run a marathon. It was something I’d thought about in high school, writing it off as impossible for me— I just wasn’t built for it, I thought. I’m not thin—the only time in my life I’ve ever been thin was when I was deep into anorexia and the convoluted thought processes that somehow distracted me from eating.
Unexpected beauty pops up in the details on trails like this. Even when you come for the big views, when you look at the little stuff, it’s also breathtakingly beautiful.
Sometimes life, like a difficult trail up to the top of a mountain isn’t easy. But it is always worth the journey.
Yet, the trail to the summit of Mt. Rose was the run and the image that made the lede of my first featured story in a local newsweekly that ran in September of 2007, with my picture on the front, running through the trees. That version of me loved running up mountains because it was the perfect way to remind myself that sometimes life isn’t easy: the secret to getting through the hard times is actually pretty simple. If you keep putting one foot in front of the other, eventually you’ll arrive.
Why Climbing is Powerful
Posing together at the summit of Mt. Rose. We made it!!
I’m laughing as I write this; neither my friend nor I fueled properly for this hike. If I were handing out grades, we’d probably get a C- or something. At least we both brought plenty of water—which we needed—because it was hot out.
There were a surprising number of people on the trail—all shapes, ages, sizes, and abilities. I was especially impressed with a couple who carried their small children up to the summit. The mother had her infant son strapped to her stomach, and the father with a toddler on his back. I glanced at my little pack with a water bottle, a polaroid camera, and lip balm and felt immediately grateful I didn’t have to haul another human with me up to the summit.
If you’ve never been to the Mt. Rose Summit Trail, you should check it out at some point. It’s beautiful no matter when you catch it, and I could argue that it’s gorgeous in June when the wildflowers are blooming or in Fall when the aspens blaze in their brilliant gold leaves and the light has a softness to it. It’s probably amazing in winter, too, but I don’t do that snow stuff anymore.
Anyway, for the first three miles, the trail is pretty flat, undulating at times, but nothing too steep or too serious. At three miles in, the climbing begins and it’s not exactly easy. Oddly enough, that’s also what I liked about this trail so much: it was OK to go slow. There were no expectations I’d place on myself other than just to keep going. I miss that.
Since I moved on in later years to compete in different sports, I started to place a lot of expectations on myself about what I was capable of doing. And while I was usually capable of meeting all of my expectations. But, at a certain point, having so many of them took the fun out of an activity that began as a kind of moving meditation and a celebration of life.
The view of Lake Tahoe and the Lake Tahoe Basin from the top.
On the trail, the obligations of my job, the complications of relationships, my-ever undulating understanding of own physicality—all that stuff— just falls away, and there’s the pine smell in the air and the puffs of dust around my feet, reminding me of the solidity of each step I take.
That’s my hometown, way, way, way down there!
There will never be a feeling quite like realizing you’ve arrived at the top of a very tall mountain.
There’s this physical reminder of progress, too. You can’t help but notice when the air starts to thin and become cooler. And then, of course, you just have to look over your shoulder to realize “Holy crap! I started waaaay down there!” (In the parking lot that looks barely big enough for ants. My friend made a comment like that as two hikers were descending. One of them, a lanky woman, replied: “You climbed all the way up here to look at the parking lot? You better not have left your lights on.”)
The distance, as well as the elevation, become real in a way that’s undeniable. There is such a powerful feeling of accomplishment embedded in climbing mountains. It’s crazy that I stopped doing that.
But, you know what they say: it’s never too late to start living the life you want.
Sharing Spaces
The other part that made this hike so impactful, I guess, was that I got to share this sacred space that I had loved so much—and the memories there—with a friend who had never been hiking before, and was experiencing it all for the first time: the way the trail sort of meanders and then turns sharp and mean with its quick ascent up the mountainside, and the way there’s that sign announcing the summit is only a mile away, and you always think (I always did, running it, and my friend literally asked me this over and over again): “How is this only a mile long? This is the longest mile of my life…”
And the section I forgot about at the moonscape top where the trail more or less disappears and you’re just short of crawling up the loose, rocky scree before it (kind of) levels out again. The panoramic views of Reno 5,000(ish) feet below, Lake Tahoe, as well as far away Donner Summit and Donner Lake, Prosser Dam and Mount Lassen, which was definitely visible that day in the clear blue in the far far distance.
The hike wasn’t all business, though. We stopped by a waterfall on the way back and I literally jumped in—the cold water shocked my spirit into a childlike wonder as I danced under the sparkling cold water that cascaded down and all around me. I felt like a kid again, with that rare joy that bubbles up on the surface of your skin, a tickle, an uncontrollable laugh, and lightness. I love it when joy is like that.
I won’t lie- the last two miles back to the car dragged on longer than that mile to the top. My hip started to ache (it sucks getting old) and I questioned my decision to dance around in that waterfall because my shoes and socks had been soaked and now were making my feet itch like nobody’s business. My shoulders were a shade of red and hot, like a cooked lobster.
And yet, and yet: this life.
This amazing life.
This life that can include adventure and joy.
An artistic rock cairn at the summit meant, I suppose, to guide the way.
Writing a book can be like climbing a mountain. I’ve thought so for the longest time. You don’t know where the top is, or necessarily how far away it is. Sometimes it seems so close, while signposts might not always direct you so clearly (e.g.: the longest mile of your life.) All you can do is keep taking steps forward, trusting in your strength and the belief that rests so close to the heart that if you just keep moving forward—and keep believing— at some point, you’ll arrive.
It might not be the journey you wanted. It might be scary. It might mean that you take a risk— that you might break your heart, that you might fail. But, it’s like that musical I love, The Sound of Music: sometimes you just have to live the life you were meant to live, even if it’s crazy and you hike mountains to get away from evil Nazis. Or maybe it’s not as dramatic as that. Maybe it’s allowing yourself to be you, the TRUE you.
Whatever it is, here’s to taking the first of many, many steps. I’m right here with you, friends. <3