Did you know that an oriole hopping about in bushes and leaves makes about the same amount of noise as three does standing together and fidgeting in the underbrush? Recently, I found this out for myself on two consecutive days. The first day, I slowed my pace and looked about for the rustling, hoping it was not a skulking bobcat or spraying skunk. A relatively small bird was making the most of grubs and caterpillars with gusto ten feet to my right. It ignored me. Next day I heard what I identified as the same noise ten feet to my left. Expecting to see yet another avian variety, instead I spied three deer ladies, posed and staring inquiringly back at me. “Please don’t stampede,” I said under my breath.
Yes, I rely on, and am grateful to retain, my auditory sense. Hearing once kept me from stepping closer to a rattler braided into a yucca bush. Usually I can hear elk or big horn before I see them and avoid collision. A spinning sprocket has its own individual voice and I can frequently tell whether it is fore or aft and find a rock or wide space to cling to before I hear the startled operator croak, “on your left.”
But the wind? The wind changes everything. Are the trees going to fall on me? Or is that creaking and groaning actually a derailleur changing gears? The pines and juniper make me skittish. Yesterday I was out of the woods, and in the gambles oak and sage brush when I heard the fast approach of a cyclist who clearly needed to oil his chain. I jumped into the grass and yucca and turned to see a wizened oak leaf, dried into a gnarled fist shape, driven by the wind – rasping all the way – chasing me down the dirt path.
Some days are becalmed but for my forward tread. Not a breeze. Lizards and snakes soundless, unnoticed unless you see them. On one such day I hiked a familiar trail. Taking a right turn at a fork I thought to myself, “Private property up ahead, I’ll just walk to the sign and then turn back.” Suddenly. Noiseless. There in the willows. As surprised and curious at my silent approach as I was by hers; a doe.
She hiked 5.3 miles yesterday. Not that she really intended to go that far, but what is five miles when you have no schedule, no appointments, no reason to be back at a certain time? According to her observations, one felt better when averaging 3 miles per day. Why stop at three miles when five might make you feel glorious? Besides, what is that? Up there. Just around that next bend?
It is becoming habitual; daily pulling on the short wool socks, the hiking sandals, zip off shorts – the sawed off T-shirt and maybe a hoodie depending on the weather. All topped off with a water bottle in a sling stuffed with a rain poncho and cotton handkerchief. The cell phone goes in her pocket – for taking pictures, not messages -keys to the opposing pocket. And lastly, the bandana of the day is tied round the nose and mouth. Ah-the bandana. Aye-yi-yi-yi -she is a bandito, stealing an hour or two of time that in former days had been allocated to economic security.
With bandana securely in place until she reaches a trail with no one in sight, she ventures out on her own feet to engage in forest bathing. Yesterday 5.3 miles. In the days before: 5.6, 4.5, 3.9,1.8 and 4.4. Since anything over three miles is quite possibly indicative of new discovery, it’s been a week of enlightenment. She now knows the trails less traveled, also the delightful little coves for putting in and taking out a kayak and the most likely fishing holes along the river. She figured out early on that the trails laid out for hikers and bicyclists are often labyrinthian, doubling back on themselves endlessly through the trees. But if you were going to cut the corners, take a shortcut, do it the most expedient way; why would you ever leave home in the first place? Route signs carefully coordinated by the City of Durango, BLM, Forest Service, and 2000 Trails are helpful, but not always clear. What does it matter as long as you have a general idea of where you are and no deadline? Explore the trail!
And that’s why, she frequently sets out to hike three miles and ends up hiking five.
Over her hiking years she learned that she can usually gage the distance, without benefit of pedometer, simply by how she feels. Mile one: Ahhhhh, I can breathe again, why didn’t I do this sooner?Mile two, the tension drops away and a new perspective dawns somewhere in the back of her mind. Between mile three and four her appetite for good, healthful food kicks in and she takes another sip from her water bottle. Mile four is for menu planning – usually Chinese. Yesterday was a bit of an aberration. At mile three, deep in a piñon pine forest she said to herself, “When I get home, perhaps I will make some vanilla pudding.” She stopped in her tracks to find the source of this inspiration. There it was. Twelve feet ahead and just to the left of the trail, a ponderosa pine of substantial girth. She sniffed it. She hugged it. She continued happily on down the trail.
She had always been fascinated by what makes people tick, the difference between introverts and extroverts, melancholies and cholerics, Myers-Briggs categories and –more recently- Enneagram personality types.
COVID-19 lockdowns, quarantines and isolations reveal a lot about our personalities. She was reveling in people watching; and best of all – from a distance! What a comfort is distance to the introvert! From her solitude she contemplated: Which of us are rule followers? Who is naturally rebellious? Who panics? Who doubts? Who hides? Who are the altruists ready to pitch in for the common good? Which of our acquaintance are conspiracy theorists? Who sees every crisis as opportunity? Who will seize the day?
She encouraged bicycling, as something you can do alone. She didn’t have a bicycle at the moment, but as an avid hiker she was quite used to sharing the trail with cyclists so she knew a bit about them. She was pretty sure bicycling belonged on the list of things you can do whilst thriving solo. What continues to surprise her is the number of bicyclists that persist in riding in groups – gangs even.
I’m not talking about the family groups, the bearded dad and the lithe young mom and the eight-year-old voice that pipes up, “on your left,” while the endearing four-year-old sibling, balancing solo on a 12-inch tries his best to repeat the alert while still maintaining proper balance and social distance. That’s a forever memory – a keeper from the crisis. My surprise, my thinly veiled criticism, is for the pack of five fifteen-year-olds I met on the concrete river path yesterday- obviously quintuplets because they had a mom and a dad with them. But they were far from identical. In fact, a couple of them had to bark at their buddy – I mean, their brother – for not paying attention, for veering into the left lane and nearly pinning me against the railing as I attempted to keep proper social distance. Obviously, he couldn’t see me since I was wearing a facemask. But wait, I don’t wish to throw stones (that would be against the rules). My purpose is to let her speak about the Enneagram Cyclists she meets.
She has been a rule-follower from the get-go. At first she thought it was just the way her parents raised her, but no. No amount of peer pressure has ever dislodged her from her innate fixation on doing things right. Oh, she is nice about it. As loyal as she is to keeping the rules, she is also humble – shy really – and will quickly step out of the way and hide her eyes when others insist on not following the rules. If you are going to keep rules, you must keep abreast of the rules – and she does! She reads the signs, she keeps a lama between you (and a slide trombone fully extended and the length of a mattress and the width of a car). She also knows the trail rules: Hikers yield to horses, bikers yield to hikers. But knowing she has the right-of-way does not stop her from stepping aside to let the cyclists pass. She hears them coming (thank God for good hearing on twisting treed mountain trails), she understands something of the difficulty of losing momentum once you start an incline, and the danger or impossibility even of stopping too fast as you barrel down a plunge. Besides, if you are quick on your feet and see a clear space to step aside, it is just common sense to do so.
Over the past decade, she has met only three Type One Enneagram cyclists. She knows they were type one because they insisted on keeping the rules. One dismounted and insisted on letting her pass – which she found embarrassing as she had already found a good rock to stand on. One simply said with a smile, “bikers yield to hikers, you go first!” The other one, also friendly, called out, “you have the right of way!” Mostly, bicyclists and hikers simply share the trail. As I said, she steps aside whenever she can and the majority of cyclists simply say, “thank you.”
They might be peacemakers, or enthusiasts, Fours, Fives, Sixes, Sevens or Nines. Some Twos consciously move aside for her and she says thank you. And they reassure her that it is no problem.
Some, like the teen girl she met the other day simply don’t know which end is up. They have never been taught. She was hiking at a good pace down a slight decline through pine and oak as she caught sight of a cyclist approaching a trail junction some 30 feet ahead. When she saw the cyclist acknowledge her presence and yet turn to proceed up the trail, she slowed her pace and looked about for a wide space. Oak brush, yucca and small cacti slid downward on her right. Tree trunks and sage ascended steeply to the left. To the rear, 50 feet more of the same narrow trail. It was indeed, very single track. She came to a halt, toes teetering on the edge of the trail and called to the approaching cyclist who was pushing the bike, “It’s very narrow right here.” She looked pointedly over the young woman’s shoulder to the junction not more than 15 feet distant where the trail was broad and wide and turn around space existed. “I’ll just go here,” said the young woman, doggedly pushing past at the narrowest part of the trail and nearly shouldering her off and into the yucca, while missing only by a hairsbreadth treading on her feet and ankles. So much for yielding and common sense. At least the young woman was alone. Not so on Saturday when she met the cycling gang. Three of them. Full speed in spandex. Traveling so fast she had time only to jump between two sagebrush as they sped by, heads down, no face masks. From the sagebrush, she followed their trajectory and noticed a single cyclist, uphill bound, who hastily pulled off the trail to save his neck. She kept her place and waited aside for him to resume and pass, still shaking his head. She shrugged, “some people don’t even take time to wave.” He smiled, “I don’t think they get it.”
A few paces forward and the light dawned. They were eights! All of them. Imagine three eights in the same group!
So you think you can stop me! Nothing can stand in my way! Get out of my way I’m an eight!
If she took a hike every day of her life, would it be enough? When you hike you learn something new every time; something new about Nature, something new from Science, something novel about people – maybe even something new about yourself.
Better yet, hiking is something you can do alone, solitary, at a proper physical distance during times of quarantine.
It was the seventh day after implementation of proper social distancing in Durango, Colorado. Not the seventh day after discovery of Coronavirus, not the seventh day after cessation of hand-shaking. No one had been shaking hands for two weeks. But it was the seventh day since library and public places closure. It was also a Sunday. and recreators were out in force – albeit, maintaining a six to ten foot social distance between parties – often even persons in the same group.
Blue sky and wispy cirrus clouds were overhead. She had walked a good three miles at a fast pace in the best combination of places; beside running water, through trees and grasses and other vegetation and rocks. She had nodded and waved to passersby from a safe physical distance and tried not to breathe – neither out nor in – when others came too close. She was a good person and always, always tried to obey the rules. And the rules of this beautiful day? Look around you. Breathe deep. Enjoy nature. Be grateful to have landed in this wonderful place. Be at peace. Be healthful. Be restored. Once or twice she pulled out her phone to snap a picture. She wanted to remember. She wanted a record of what Nature whispered.
A guttural bray split the silence some 100 yards behind her. Again it honked, loud, forced, like an angry human deliberately trying to disrupt the stillness and beauty with a manufactured cough. Or did someone need help? She turned.
Have you ever heard the cry of a wild animal in distress? It is an awful bellow. More blood-curdling than the midnight call of a fox on the tail of its prey. She was once awakened in the middle of the night by just such a cry from a rabbit fatally harassed by neighbor dogs. This wild animal was twenty times bigger than a rabbit and ten times louder and whatever this animal was, it was being pursued downriver by another large mammal. The two mammals emerged around the bend like overgrown children playing crack-the-whip, for the animal in pursuit had attached itself to the hindquarters of a doe in flight. Both were kicking and swimming for dear life.
If there was one safety rule she knew, it was not to interfere with nature. She watched. She made sure she was in a protected place behind a tree. Those animals, now only 30 yards away down a riverbank, might separate and escape up the bank, straight at her at any moment. She took out her camera and focused on the harsh realities of nature taking course in the water. Suddenly, two young women appeared around the bend; one at river level in hasty and desperate pursuit of her dog, which turned out to be the pursuing mammal; the other, fifteen feet away at trail level. “What are you doing?” yelled the near woman. “Are you recording this? Delete it right now! Don’t you dare post that!”
She looked up from her phone in surprise, “This is important,” she said mildly.
“No! No it’s not important,” spat the young woman, “put your camera away.”
On the rocky river beach another scene unfolded. Miraculously, the first young woman got hold of her dog, separated and leashed him, handed him over to a seasoned canine owner amongst the bystanders and returned to check on the doe. Meanwhile, a fisherman from upstream had waded quickly through the current and, sportsman that he was, proceeded to do his best to get the doe to solid ground. Others ran to find phone numbers and contact wildlife officials. Someone murmured about fines leveled at dog owners when wildlife is injured.
Feeling not very helpful, she turned and continued her final mile on the trek home. Saddened by Nature. Disappointed by irrational humans. Uplifted by the beautiful day. How she wished she had that fisherman’s rescue on tape. It reminded her of a positive video she once saw online. But alas, though the video button glowed red through the entire incident, the record button was never engaged.
Wanted: Hiking Buddy Generally – as is commonly repeated – I savor silence. I embrace solitude. A walk is a meditation. I almost prefer to hike alone. Generally, I follow the thinking of a young female ranger who once pointed out to me, “Cherry, I have found there are places I will never get to go if I wait until someone can go with me.” And so it happens that I travel alone. I go to movies alone. I take myself out to dinner table for one. I kayak alone. I spontaneously lace on my hiking boots and head out my front door – or I park the Subaru at a likely trailhead and commence exploring. Still, I am a cautious being; and, I like to think, wise. I long to touch the Colorado River – dip my toes in- everywhere I can – all the way from Lulu City Colorado to the backwash of the Salton Sea and the Gulf of California. When I swim in Lake Powell, I think of it as dipping my toes in the Colorado River. Soon after my arrival in Northern Arizona, I learned of Cathedral Wash, a moderate hike of about 4 miles beginning in Glen Canyon National Recreation area and ending on the Colorado River about two and a half river miles downstream from the Paria Riffle. One day I parked my car and headed down the wash. It was a negotiable route until I reached a pour off. The drop was only five feet or so – easy going down, but what of the return trip? I needed a hiking buddy-not a tall one- just someone to lean on-someone to boost – someone to pull. Yesterday I departed from my flat on foot. Half a mile later I was in a gray sandstone slot canyon that stretches from Highway 89 down to Wahweap Bay. Coming from the neighborhood, I accessed the wash at mid-point, hiked toward the bay until I hit a 25-foot drop off. Rather than find a route around, I hiked back toward Highway 89 to ascertain landmarks for the beginning of the route. This route is well known to a group known as The Happy Hikers, and multiple footprints were evident in the bottom of the canyon. As I progressed up the wash, I came to a place where the slot narrowed, where I climbed into a sort of lemon squeezer, no footpath on the bottom so butt scooting became necessary. There was an obstruction. There was light on the other side. Could I cross over? Yes. Should I cross over? Probably not. If only I had a hiking buddy. Unfamiliar with the route, I did not know what came next and I might soon have to reverse the route. Already the rock I had moved to climb into the lemon squeezer had crumbled, being only of mudstone. I had passed multiple small rock falls in the canyon. I backtracked and caught the first available steep climb out of the canyon and followed a coyote trail along the rim, reconnoitering as I went. Yes, the butt scoot would have been possible, but to no avail. Immediately thereafter were two twenty-foot pour offs to circumvent. As it turns out, I made the right decisions. In addition, I have recently discovered a route around the pour off in Cathedral Wash. Maybe I don’t need a hiking buddy after all? But then again, it has been fun going longer distances with the Martys and Lindas and Johannas and Janices in my life. Solitude is fine, but society has its merits. The best things in life are shared. Hiking Buddy wanted!
Ouray Colorado: A couple years ago I was so profoundly moved in my spirit by the beauty and the healing that I typed a post, “Take me to Church.” Yes. Ouray is both my church and my hospital. I am revived here. I receive healing from the same waters Chief Ouray found healthful. Out of the earth come comforting, purifying hot springs and gratitude wells up. The nature of gratitude is to heal our spirits.
It was a perfect morning. I woke at five and stayed in bed until six. No schedule to meet. In my spa robe I procured a cup of tea from the dark lobby. I read. I wrote. I texted a happy birthday greeting to my youngest. I pulled on my bathing suit and headed outside. It is so cold the clock battery has ceased. Snow is piled 6 inches high on the pool furniture. The pool perimeter has accumulated another half inch since yesterday’s shoveling. There is ice on the pool stair rail and frost on the entry handle to the hotel lobby. Please know that it was -2 when I crossed Dallas Divide last night. So cold that when nature called I dared not stop and answer but pushed onward to the gas station in Ridgway. This morning I kick off my flip flops, grasp the handrail and am reminded of that crazy kid who was dared to lick a frozen pump handle. I stick. I freeze. I get myself into the water as quickly as possible. I lean on the edge of the pool and my hair takes on frost. I bask and survey the mountain surroundings. I am alone in all this beauty and the only word that comes to mind is “Mercy!”
Not “have mercy,” just “Mercy!” – a Roy Orbison kind of mercy. I am overwhelmed. I swim. I float. I swim again. My hair is now too thoroughly wet to keep my head long out of the pool. I exit onto the frosted flagstone. My towel has frozen stiff. I proceed to the vapor cave. The healing power of gratitude is granted. This used to be a hospital. It is still mine. Mercy!
It is now 10:00 am. The sun is up! The thermometer has risen to 8 degrees. Grandma used to say, “Make hay while the sun shines.” I must make hike while the sun shines.
In the end, even the most introverted of us long for connection. True connection is rare. It is fleeting. You want it to go on forever. You may yearn for a lifetime commitment of feeling connected, but it is often only a glance – perhaps a moment – or three or four minutes – or a well turned phrase – a pun between strangers – a single dance in the ballroom of life – a bit of music and harmony.
I scheduled a stop in Moab – intentionally – to play the public piano my friend said was installed outside the MIC. Incredibly there was a vacant parking space not 30 feet from the piano. I shouldered by backpack purse, locked the car, proceeded to the bench, which was securely chained to the console, and took a practice run of the keys. The g” was totally stuck – not good for a piano girl who chronically plays in the key of “C”. A bit out of tune. Tinny. But public pianos are ideal for making lemonade out of lemons. I dropped into Mandolin Rain, taking full use of the multiple, unsynchronized strings to tremolo the octaves. On the berm directly in front of me, a mom and a few children in a playgroup looked up momentarily and then the kids returned immediately to rolling in the grass. 50 yards away a middle-aged man lounging on the lawn readjusted his position. Three coeds walking on the sidewalk started circus strutting and giggling to the music. I realized I must be giving it a bit too much swing, so I pulled it down to mellow for the next selection and went with Roger Whittaker’s Last Farewell, dwelling in the lower range. It was a rather lazy, sunny afternoon, about 3:00 pm on November 8th and time for me to be moving on down Highway 128 for Grand Junction so I launched Unchained Melody as a finale.
From my peripherals a tall blond woman about my age approached. She began dancing and vocalizing in the manner of Maria getting lost in the Sound of Music. For a moment I tried to follow her as she seemed to be channeling Whitney Houston and I Will Always Love You, but she was really extemporizing about her love of the canyons. “Just play whatever you want,” she said, “and I’ll sing.” For the next three minutes I improvised and she extemporized. We took a musical safari over red sandstone and rivers and mountains all buttressed and cross-bedded with I, and IV, and V and vi and runs and passing tones and flourishes. It was Moab and it was magical. She sustained a high note. I followed her up the scale and made a grand pause. Waiting, waiting, for the perfect moment of her breath. Glissando. Final chord. Cut-off. I popped off the piano bench and high-fived her. We introduced ourselves. She is Sharon. I am Cherry. Obviously same generation. Shared love of music and hiking in the great outdoors.
She mentioned a video contest was underway for this public piano and asked if I would film her. I took up her phone. She sat at the bench and vocalized once again, accompanying herself with a few basic chords. “That will be a winner,” she said. For her sake, I hope it is.
But I will always savor the memory of the video that got away – two strangers spontaneously improvising in perfect synchrony in their love of musical expression and Nature at a public piano in Moab.
The public piano at the MIC – The Red Pearl upper right
To begin with, She didn’t turn the heat on until October 30. October was a very beautiful month.
Beautiful in that she got out a record number of times – every weekend – to hike or kayak or hug the trees – the beautiful, blazing- fall-festooned trees. She travelled a little bit for work and saw other communities adorned with yellows, golds, orange hues, and sometimes even reds.
She ate right. She planned lunches and cleaned up left-overs.
She made every effort to sleep right.
She got away from work and outside a record number of times.
She even got outside with her work a few times.
She was not often alone in her outdoor exercise.
There were friends.
Quality friends who came to visit; kindred spirits to host.
Yes. It was a very good October. Not often did she wake with that sinking feeling – that feeling of dread.
Never did she have to say, “It is too hot to hike.”
Often did she say, “It is so beautiful, my spirit is refreshed.”
Frequently she said yes to kayaks and hiking sticks and shorts and sandals. This is a good thing, a very good thing, for winter is coming and soon it will be too cold to slosh through calve- deep creeks on a trek to somewhere beautiful. She didn’t do any canning this year, but she did prepare for winter. She stored up the good times.
Does that sound like an oxymoron? Kind of like enforced holiday?
Let me ask another question. Are you an inspired and spontaneous creative? Or are you a plodder? Or, maybe like me, a balanced combination of both – until you lose that ever so finely tuned balance. Some unexpected event drains you dry, saps your adrenaline, spins you off the wagon and back into workaholism. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, you consistently work late to get things done, but you are no longer finding joy in it
I have a boss who encourages, “Do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself.” He is far from laissez faire when he says this. What he is doing is giving each of us on the administrative team responsibility for our own health; our mental, emotional and physical wellbeing.
Sometimes working late IS self-care. I may need to complete a project so it doesn’t keep me awake at night. Perhaps I need to stay and make extra preparation ahead so that I don’t go into a special event rattled at the onset.
Other times, I have to insist of myself that I go home on time; that I recreate, that I pursue a change of pace. It was one of those weekends.
My regular five workdays included a 12-hour delivery day calling on far-flung stores. The previous week encompassed six days on and only Sunday off. I was beginning to feel the weariness. The joy and energy were wearing thin. So, like it or not; projects waiting or not, it was high time for a change of pace.
When I insist on deliberate fun, I am often reminded of a scene in “The Grapes of Wrath” and the uncle who took his drunk deliberately – like a medicine – without any enjoyment – just because it had to be done.
The thing is, deliberate doesn’t feel like fun at first. I didn’t feel like packing the car for an overnight trip. I didn’t feel like making a two-hour drive. I was fearful of getting out of signal range. What if someone called? What if I got an important email? What if someone needed me? What if the world came to an end and I wasn’t there to, to, to, to what?
I packed the car. I drove. I found a campsite. I walked in the forest. I cooked on my pocket stove. I hiked to the top of a mountain.
And then, wonder of wonders, deliberate fun turned into relaxation, peace, a new mindset, a fresh perspective.
She is my guest, but she has been here many times before.
I am getting acquainted with all the trails and only take the long ones on weekends – days off from work.
She knows this place like the back of her hand.
I live in housing with four walls and have not yet camped seven miles out under the stars.
She has spent many October birthday weeks 4 X 4 camping at the end of Salt Creek and taking daily forays further into the wilderness.
Salt Creek is closed to wheeled vehicles now, open only to those visitors on foot. But she remembers exploring after hearty dinners around the campfire.
She is older than I – not much-but her memory is sharp. Her memories are good. Very good. This is her favorite place.
Now she is showing me around, introducing me to my own neighborhood. “Right over this hill,” she says, “right around this rock, I found a couple granaries and pictographs I don’t think the rangers know about. Over there, you can see a panel if you have binoculars. The ranger pointed that out, but I have never seen it.”
There are other things she teaches me too, like how to eat well while hiking or camping. What to prepare. Which items to bring. What footwear to choose.
Hiking alone is always inspiring. Wandering is fine. But sooner or later you need a hiking mentor to show you the good stuff.
I doubt I will ever attain her status – the ability to cook chicken cacciatore for eight and then pack it to the hut on Nordic skis.
But I do aspire to her confidence and belief in the abilities of others. Also, her calm patience when backtracking for a lost camera. The camera that carelessly slipped from my pocket and to the ground right after I took the eagle picture. The backtrack that added an extra mile to the ten for which I had steeled myself. The backtrack that we felt acutely in the heat of the day on the last two miles that terminated our trek and restored us to hot running water.
Never-the-less, we venture on another trail today, unflagging. Well-guided. Mentored. Ever learning.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
