The good, the bad, and the ugly

Yes, I survived two days and 21.5 miles of hiking through a small section of the Catskill Mountains.  Yes, appointments with a podiatrist and a masseuse have all been scheduled.  

The good-

We started early in the morning, leaving my truck at, what we hoped would be, the end of our trek, and drove her car to the beginning of our journey. The weather was perfect and we began an easy couple of miles through some wetland areas before the terrain started getting more rugged and forested.  The leaves had just barely begun to change and, due to recent rain, the scenery was a lovely verdant green.  We were following along a creek, and the sound of gurgling water was almost always audible.  I had forgotten just how soothing and centering time in the wilderness can be.  

Unlike previous trips, we now had cell phones. Although we agreed not to use them, it was comforting to know we had them in case of an emergency or getting lost. My other upgrade was I now carry a trekking pole, mostly for balance when crossing logs, streams, etc.

The bad -

As feared, after a few miles, my left foot just blew up.  When I took my boot off the first night, it looked like a water balloon with a golf ball sized swelling around a marble sized bump.  I was able to soak it in a cold creek for a while but wound up having to take the laces out of my boot and just tie them around the top to keep the boot on.  Emotionally, I was able to work through it, although if I were honest, I was angry.  This reminder of trauma is apparently going to follow me to the end.  Yes, the body keeps score.

The ugly -

My New Year's resolution this year was to be able to do a deep squat.  I still can’t do one, but I failed to realize how much this would affect my ability to pee in the woods.  (TMI??)

I have an ultra-light, tunnel tent which just fits two people plus a small vestibule to cover gear.  We have used this tent many, many times with no issue.  But apparently, we have both put on a few pounds since our younger backpacking days.  Suffice it to say, we were like little pudgy sardines, squeezed into a nylon sac.  Fortunately, we have known each other for a long time so extreme closeness was not so much an intimate embarrassment, but more a claustrophobic clash for space.

So try to picture an arthritic woman, sleeping on the hard ground, waking to pee late in the middle of the night, deep in a forest, having to wiggle out of a cramped cocoon, trying awkwardly to stand up with nothing to hold onto, then finding a sapling to grab onto, trying to squat and praying that I wasn’t peeing down my leg or sitting in poison ivy.  I’m pretty sure all the nocturnal creatures were laughing.  

We had covered more than half the distance the first day so day 2 was shorter but steeper (which is actually easier than going downhill) My body was screaming for mercy but mentally I was happy to be defying my age, knowing how easy it is to fall into the “I’m too old for that” mentality.  By afternoon we popped out of the woods where we thought my truck would be, but no.  Fortunately, an airtag in the truck showed that we had overshot it by only a few hundred yards

Cell phones, airtags and trekking poles have certainly made backpacking safer but, until they can give me a bionic body, I think I’ll leave the trails for the younger folks*

*Epilogue

A few days after this trip, my youngest came home with her kids and asked if we could do our traditional hike.  This is a short but very strenuous hike I have yearly done with her since she was one, and I carried her in a backpack.  Now she was going to carry my latest 5-month-old grandson.  I tried to beg off since the foliage was only beginning to turn, and my body was still recuperating, but it was the last time she would be home until Thanksgiving.  Damn traditions.  I struggled through it.  Well, I’d rather be the oldest woman on the trail then the youngest woman in the nursing home.

 

Happy Trails

Having lunch with my friend and former hiking buddy, we began talking about our former backpacking trips.  Could we still do it?  With all our aging aches and pains?  In a moment of insanity, we committed to pulling out the old gear and giving it a try.  After all, Betty the Legend, the oldest woman to have hiked the entire 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail in one trip, did it at the age of 80.  We quickly put together a plan. 

Where:  The Long Path, which runs from Manhattan north to the Adirondacks is approx. 360 miles.  Long ago we had done most of it, albeit in smaller sections over time.  Back then, much of the trail was incomplete, often coming out on roadways for large portions, which held no interest for us.  Today, more sections have been completed, and we have chosen a 21 mile length of trail to complete in two days.  It is rated moderate, with some strenuous sections, with wild forest and waterfalls.

When:  September, a month that is often emotionally difficult for me and forest hiking has always helped.  Being retired, we have the luxury to wait for perfect weather - low 70s in the day, 50s at night so we don’t have to carry too many clothes. 

Gear: I dug in our storage shed and pulled out my old backpack and gear.  While they were state-of-the-art back in the day, I’m sure everything from packs and sleeping mats, stoves and cookware have been streamlined to weigh less and be more efficient.  But I’m not spending hundreds for a 2 day trip so my old stuff will have to do. 

     This old pack has seen a lot of miles

Prep:   I generally average around 8k steps a day, and it’s been a long time since I’ve hiked 10 miles a day on rugged terrain.  My left foot, which was broken in a few places years ago, has filled in with a lot of arthritis, making flexing my toes quite painful.  I have laced into my old high-top hikers, which seem to stabilize my foot enough to manage the pain.  It is my biggest worry about this trip - that the pain will trigger memories.   I have also started hiking up and down local hills.  The body is willing, but the knees are weak.  Very weak.

The weather is looking good for this Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday.   Happy trails to me.

Journey at Rest by Craig Campbell

January Blues

Between Thanksgiving and Christmas we celebrate four family birthdays, and travel to celebrate two separate Christmases.   By the time December is over, I’m spent.  January usually provides some quiet relief for this over-stimulated introvert.  

Meanwhile, January is an extremely busy time for Martha who subs daytime in an elementary school and coaches practices and games with her basketball team most evenings.  She is rarely home except to change and grab something to eat. And I normally love this month of peace and quiet.

But this year, January felt different.

The northeast was gripped by an unusually frigid stretch, with temps barely coming out of minus territory.  We sealed ourselves in, closing all our insulated blackout curtains to ward off drafts. The house became   like a dark cave.  We had multiple snowfalls with one piling on an additional 24 inches on top of the existing, never melting snow.  It wasn’t even the magical kind - too dry to make snowmen or snowangels.  Just huge drifts making my world feel smaller and more shut in..  

 

Homebound, with no sunlight, and too cold to even take a walk, I began to feel something heavier than cabin fever. A familiar but long-absent sadness crept in.  It was a scary feeling for me as anxiety is now more my dysfunction than this claustrophobic heaviness I used to suffer from. It caught me off guard.

I was feeling particularly fragile with a melancholy I could not shake.  

I often felt that I needed a good cry, but couldn’t even muster that.   Feeling sorry for myself, I couldn’t even start a gratitude list which is my usual go-to mood lifter. I admit I was a little scared that I wouldn’t be able to dig myself out of the hole. 

Come February I had to force myself to go on my annual New York City weekend with my daughters.  Travel was stressful, with trains being cancelled due to weather, but we all managed to meet up in time for an indulgent French lunch, a matinee of the update musical ‘Chicago’ (a show I had promised them years ago, but Covid cancelled) and lingered and laughed over a warm Italian dinner.  Sharing a hotel room (and bed) with my daughters, one who is very pregnant, was a “fun” experience.  And being in my home city with my girls started to lift the veil of darkness that had been weighing on me. 

BTW - I was pleasantly surprised at how crowded the restaurants, theater and stores were, hearing multiple languages and seeing a full spectrum of skin tones wherever we went.  I had feared that tourists and immigrants had totally disappeared with the current federal policies.

Back home I planted flower seedlings under lights in my basement.   This simple, annual ritual has helped break me out of my winter doldrums. Watching those tiny green leaves pushing bravely out of the soil never fails to be miraculous to me. 

It is now mid February. The sun has finally come out, the days are longer and the temps have risen to bearable.  I can take daily walks and I delight watching the birds in my yard venture out to peck at the seed I’ve been throwing on top of the snow.  We are definitely headed in the right direction.

And yesterday, as if to chase the last vestiges of depression,  my 4 year old grandson burst into the house, all smiles, and slammed into me with an arm full of flowers shouting “Happy Valentine’s Day”.  

Sometimes joy seeps in quietly.

And sometimes it runs straight into you. 

September's Soup

 Many, many years ago, I heard a pastor give a sermon about infidelity in marriage.   He likened marriage to making soup but if one spouse strays, it's like spilling a huge amount of salt into the pot.  There is no way to remove the salt - what’s done is done - and there are only two solutions.  One is to throw the soup away and the other is to continually add more and more good things to the pot until the salt is no longer overwhelming.

September has always been a difficult month for me, mostly because of the traumatic anniversary.  Memories wheedle their way into my head and heart and, if I'm not careful, guilt and shame and terror can drag me down dreaded rabbit holes.  It’s like far too much salt dumps into my life and it darkens the entire month.  But in recent years, so many good things have been added that the salt no longer ruins everything else.

Four years ago, my first grandchild was born at the beginning of September, and each year since, I’ve been able to celebrate him with my entire family gathered together.  There’s nothing more joyful than watching the little guy tear into presents and devour birthday cake.  And now I’ve just found out I will become a grandma for the 5th time come April - five grandchildren aged 4 and under, oh my! -a blessing that makes my heart swell.

It is also the month when I begin to shutter my veggie garden.  This year’s harvest was abundant with much pasta sauce canned, zucchini bread and pesto made, green beans frozen and boxes of food given away to friends and family.  An amazing bounty.  But as much as I love tending the garden, come September, I am happy to see the work come to an end.  To everything there is a season, and this is now the season to rest, to savor cider donuts, and to reflect with gratitude.

Though many of my Jewish friends and family have passed, I still practice many of the rituals that they shared with me.  September is the month of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur - a time of atonement.   I have spent much humbling time seeking forgiveness from people I feel I have slighted, and except for one person, all have given me the gift of grace.  And what a profound gift it is to start with a clean slate. 

So as this season turns, I am reminded that while the salt in my life will never fully disappear, it can be balanced by joy, kindness and grace.  Life, like soup, is never perfect - but with enough love and forgiveness, it can be deeply nourishing.

I hope you and your loved ones enjoy a season filled with good health, peace, and happiness.

And always, plenty of good, hearty soup.

Schadenaude

Martha is a retired police officer.  In the beginning of our relationship, when I was still suffering from PTSD and fear of the world, it was very comforting to me to have her protection.  I was proud of the awards she won for her work with crime victims and the work she did to protect kids from molesters.  She was the epitome of the ‘good cop’.  Except for one thing - when off duty she was always being stopped for speeding.  But then she would show her badge and get off scot free.  Even after she retired, that retired badge would save her from the tickets and fines.  It drove me nuts and I was always harping on her that she should be setting a good example, yada, yada, yada.  It fell on deaf ears.

Then my daughter married an Air Force veteran and it's the same thing!   He told me that he has never gotten a speeding ticket.  Then I asked how many times he had been pulled over and he said many, many times but his military ID always got him out of it.  Arghh!

I can’t count the times I reminded them that they both had careers where they swore to serve and protect.  Protect!  Yet, they felt entitled to ignore speed limits and put everyone else at risk - just because they would never suffer the consequences like everyone else.  

Well, my day has come.  The adjacent city is now using cameras to record speeders and they both got tickets -  in the mail.  Ha!  I guess those cameras don’t care if you have a badge in your wallet.  Should I be taking pleasure in their having to pay substantial fines?  Probably not.  But am I?  Absolutely. 

Full of Grace

 So many things to be grateful for this month:

-The first trip to the new dentist was unfortunately unsuccessful, so I resorted to some anxiety drugs which got me through the return visit.  I really hate to rely on drugs and feel I should be past needing them, but the tooth is fixed and I have decided to be gentle with myself on the decision.

-My garden harvest.  There’s always at least one failure - this year - lettuce.  But green beans, tomatoes, raspberries, cukes and zucchini are all doing well.

-I took two of my grandchildren to a butterfly conservatory.  There was no better feeling than seeing the wonder in a 2-year old’s face when a butterfly landed on her arm for a few minutes. Sheer joy. 

-A successful family vacation to the beach. My sons-in-law understood the assignment and gave my daughters plenty of ‘sister’ time and we ate amazing seafood and homemade ice cream daily.  It’s always good to get salty air back in my lungs and watching my 2 grandsons (not quite 4 years old) playing with boogie boards in the surf made this aging surfer girl get a little teary.

-Really enjoying my new little bistro table, nestled into our fountain garden.  This is now where I have my morning coffee and have tea parties with my granddaughter. A wonderful spot to be grateful for all the blessings in my life.

On Therapy

 July 1st was the anniversary of the death of the therapist, Lauren, who quite literally saved my life.  

Every July her daughter and family visits from France, where they now live, for a family remembrance.  This year she came alone because her husband is Muslim and they were afraid to enter this country. ( I truly have no words for the anger I feel toward this administration and the climate of fear it has created)

Still, her visit always reminds me to be grateful for a therapist who got me from point A (a barely functioning shell, lost in trauma and grief) to point B (a person  who can love, and laugh and find joy in life again).  It was exhausting work, took years, and the progress was anything but linear.  She died before I got to the finish line, but she left me with enough tools to get there. And to stay grounded with only occasional setbacks.  

I was thinking of her when I spoke to my nephew who is now in couple counseling, trying to save his marriage.  He was telling me that the therapist (whom his wife chose) sits and listens to the complaints, often rolls her eyes, and has not given them any realistic suggestions - no insights, no suggestions, no strategies to practice.  It has basically become a bitch session for his wife.  No growth. No challenge.  Really, no help in getting to the root of their problems.  I gently suggested that perhaps he should find his own therapist, to support his own growth.  

The more I chat with folks who have gone through trauma, the more I realize how lucky I was to have Lauren.  So many times I hear stories of women who have basically become dependent on their therapist for support with no growth or healing happening - emotional crutches where dependency replaces growth, and little actually changes.  Therapy, I think, should be a place to transform and build strength, even if the changes are small and incremental. 

Lauren helped me do the hard work of becoming myself again. And though she’s gone, I carry her wisdom every day. Her legacy, for me and many others like me, reminds me that healing is possible—and that a truly good therapist can change, and even save, a life.

I feel so blessed.