To my surprise, we did what we set out to do this weekend. This isn’t astonishing in and of itself, except that this weekend the plan was to hike up Bradbury Mountain in Pownal, Maine. Since my new philosophy is to go ahead and plan the things I want to do rather than waiting around for my kids to develop some of my interests, I told them I was going to do this hike and they were welcome to join me. I was sure they’d demur. They never choose hiking when I offer it as an option.
So I can’t explain why this weekend they had a change of heart from their usual reticence, but they assured me that yes, they really did want to do this hike. And since three different guidebooks assured me Bradbury Mountain is probably the easiest hike in Maine, I decided to follow through and see what would happen.
It turns out they really meant it. We did the hike; an hour of walking in all. The kids particularly enjoyed the steep rocks that they could clamber up and down, and the weather was ideal for a fall hike. Foliage in Maine is gradually starting to change, and the views were gorgeous.
But there must have been bad karma going around this weekend when it came to packing our bags. As we were getting ready to leave home and drive to Maine Saturday afternoon, Tim asked if he could slip the few things he needed for a one-night stay into my overnight bag. “Sure, there should be room in the pocket,” I told him. Not until he was changing for bed six hours – and one hundred miles – later did we realize we were talking about different overnight bags. His change of underwear and clean clothes for the next day were tucked in the pocket of the bag I had never planned to bring.
It didn’t matter too much, since I had an extra toothbrush in my toiletries bag. I teased him that for once, he actually had an excuse for not putting on clean underwear in the morning; normally, whether or not he does is anyone’s guess, since he never seems to be able to explain to me why the number of underwear items in his hamper never align with the number of days since I last did the laundry.
So that was a minor problem. Unfortunately, a worse problem occurred when we got back home late Sunday afternoon, enthusiastic and well-exercised from our hike, and I realized my overnight bag had never made it back into the car when we were packing up in Maine.
It means I have to retrace my steps and go all the way back to Portland to pick it up. It was a remarkably stupid mistake on my part, one I stewed over all evening. But in the end, I had to reconcile myself to the reality that while it was careless, it wasn’t awful. No one had gotten hurt, and there was no significant material loss. The only real cost to be paid, other than the four hours it will take me to repeat the round-trip drive this week, is gasoline and auto emissions, but since I drive a Prius, even that can almost be excused.
Still, it’s a big enough mistake that I’ll learn from it. Four dull hours on the Maine Turnpike will surely be enough to make me double-check that I have all my bags next time. And sometimes, that can be a worthwhile tradeoff: make a big enough mistake and you’re sure not to make it again.
Besides, the hike was great. That’s what I’ll hold onto from this weekend, not the frustration of leaving things behind.
I only wish that for Tim, wearing the same underwear two days in a row would vex him enough that he too would be more careful next time. But I’m not counting on it.
Showing posts with label hike. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hike. Show all posts
Monday, October 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Take a hike
A few days ago, in the middle of our week in Colorado, the kids and I set out on a hike with my aunt Pat. Taking the kids for a hike was a big deal to me, as they would be the first to tell you. It seems since April or early May, I’ve been nagging them about it: I know you never want to do this at home, but you promise me you’ll try hiking when we’re in Colorado this summer, right? Promise? You’ll try? A short hike?
I know plenty of kids who love hiking. Mine are not among them. I don’t know why, but it’s the proverbial pulling teeth to get them to go for any kind of walk in the wilderness, and when the topic comes up at home, it almost always requires an ice cream bribe to ensure that the event actually takes place. So I didn’t have high hopes for them following through on their word.
But it mattered a lot to me to believe that they would. First of all, it’s just a great activity for kids to discover, but also, it’s one of my favorite leisure time activities, and it became symbolic to me of the idea that this vacation wasn’t going to be all about them. They’ve been to Aspen before, and they can reel off the list of their favorite Aspen options: swimming at the condo pool, playing at the enormous indoor water park in the Aspen Recreation Center, walking to the candy store, riding the gondola up to the top of the mountain for bungee jumping. And all of those options are fine with me, too. It’s not like I was afraid they’d want to watch cable TV all day. But I was apprehensive that the vacation would turn into a catalog of their favorites and none of mine. I was determined that they would give a little time and effort to a couple of things on my Top Ten list.
We set out just before noon. The hike I wanted to do was a fairly level out-and-back beginning from the East Maroon Portal. It winds through groves and meadows and doesn’t have any particular destination; when you’ve had enough, you can turn back, which I thought would give it a distinct advantage over an uphill climb to an apex. Also, the East Maroon Portal can be reached at this time of year only by public transportation, and I suspected that the cachet of taking the bus to the trailhead would please Tim and Holly as well.
We set out, Holly and me slow and falling behind, Tim and Pat faster and chatting as they strode. Within five minutes, Holly started asking when we could stop for our picnic, but this was to be expected. I’d packed a good lunch for them; I wanted them to associate hiking with being well-nourished, not with a sense of fatigue and hunger. So after just twenty minutes, we found a grove with a big flat rock on which to set up our lunch.
And then after we ate, we hiked for another hour. To my surprise, I heard no complaints at all. Nor did I hear any raves about the views of Maroon Bells or the exhilaration of being out exercising in the fresh mountain air. The kids simply walked along, each at their own pace, as if this was what they’d planned to do all along.
I didn’t mind when they asked to turn back, although I could have gone on for hours more. It’s an easy, level trail, but I was surprised by the sense of absorption it gave me. As soon as we started hiking, I felt as if I had been given a pass from everything that was preoccupying me even during this vacation week: work deadlines I’d brought along with me, a big household project awaiting us at home, health concerns within my family. Walking is usually for me a quiet, meditative time to reflect on ongoing concerns, but this wasn’t like that. It was as if walking in the mountains was job enough; no one expected me to be hiking through these meadows and also mulling over my cares and troubles. I could have walked for hours, only because it felt like such an escape. I was…untethered. Electronically, yes – no cell phone signal in the Maroon Creek Valley – but mentally as well. Pleased with how the kids threw themselves into the hike, nothing more was on my mind as we walked.
If you hiked every day, I wondered, would your worries always stay a few steps behind you? Or would you eventually learn to worry and hike at the same time? Surely there must be people who throw themselves too wholeheartedly into hiking or running or some other kind of exertion precisely because of this escape factor, believing if they can preoccupy themselves enough with the challenge of a brisk uphill high-altitude walk, they’ll be immune from ordinary cares indefinitely.
That day, I felt a little like that myself, but soon I began thinking instead of the Robert Frost lines, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” I would have been happy to walk and walk and walk, if only to see how long it took before the mental realities of real life caught up with me.
But I couldn’t, because after an hour the kids were ready to turn back. And so we did. They didn’t rave about the experience, but they were happy to tell Rick about it when we returned to town, and they enjoyed seeing the photos of them that my aunt took along the trail. I’m hoping they liked it enough to do it again one of these days. I could use another hour or two of mental escape already myself.
I know plenty of kids who love hiking. Mine are not among them. I don’t know why, but it’s the proverbial pulling teeth to get them to go for any kind of walk in the wilderness, and when the topic comes up at home, it almost always requires an ice cream bribe to ensure that the event actually takes place. So I didn’t have high hopes for them following through on their word.
But it mattered a lot to me to believe that they would. First of all, it’s just a great activity for kids to discover, but also, it’s one of my favorite leisure time activities, and it became symbolic to me of the idea that this vacation wasn’t going to be all about them. They’ve been to Aspen before, and they can reel off the list of their favorite Aspen options: swimming at the condo pool, playing at the enormous indoor water park in the Aspen Recreation Center, walking to the candy store, riding the gondola up to the top of the mountain for bungee jumping. And all of those options are fine with me, too. It’s not like I was afraid they’d want to watch cable TV all day. But I was apprehensive that the vacation would turn into a catalog of their favorites and none of mine. I was determined that they would give a little time and effort to a couple of things on my Top Ten list.
We set out just before noon. The hike I wanted to do was a fairly level out-and-back beginning from the East Maroon Portal. It winds through groves and meadows and doesn’t have any particular destination; when you’ve had enough, you can turn back, which I thought would give it a distinct advantage over an uphill climb to an apex. Also, the East Maroon Portal can be reached at this time of year only by public transportation, and I suspected that the cachet of taking the bus to the trailhead would please Tim and Holly as well.
We set out, Holly and me slow and falling behind, Tim and Pat faster and chatting as they strode. Within five minutes, Holly started asking when we could stop for our picnic, but this was to be expected. I’d packed a good lunch for them; I wanted them to associate hiking with being well-nourished, not with a sense of fatigue and hunger. So after just twenty minutes, we found a grove with a big flat rock on which to set up our lunch.
And then after we ate, we hiked for another hour. To my surprise, I heard no complaints at all. Nor did I hear any raves about the views of Maroon Bells or the exhilaration of being out exercising in the fresh mountain air. The kids simply walked along, each at their own pace, as if this was what they’d planned to do all along.
I didn’t mind when they asked to turn back, although I could have gone on for hours more. It’s an easy, level trail, but I was surprised by the sense of absorption it gave me. As soon as we started hiking, I felt as if I had been given a pass from everything that was preoccupying me even during this vacation week: work deadlines I’d brought along with me, a big household project awaiting us at home, health concerns within my family. Walking is usually for me a quiet, meditative time to reflect on ongoing concerns, but this wasn’t like that. It was as if walking in the mountains was job enough; no one expected me to be hiking through these meadows and also mulling over my cares and troubles. I could have walked for hours, only because it felt like such an escape. I was…untethered. Electronically, yes – no cell phone signal in the Maroon Creek Valley – but mentally as well. Pleased with how the kids threw themselves into the hike, nothing more was on my mind as we walked.
If you hiked every day, I wondered, would your worries always stay a few steps behind you? Or would you eventually learn to worry and hike at the same time? Surely there must be people who throw themselves too wholeheartedly into hiking or running or some other kind of exertion precisely because of this escape factor, believing if they can preoccupy themselves enough with the challenge of a brisk uphill high-altitude walk, they’ll be immune from ordinary cares indefinitely.
That day, I felt a little like that myself, but soon I began thinking instead of the Robert Frost lines, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” I would have been happy to walk and walk and walk, if only to see how long it took before the mental realities of real life caught up with me.
But I couldn’t, because after an hour the kids were ready to turn back. And so we did. They didn’t rave about the experience, but they were happy to tell Rick about it when we returned to town, and they enjoyed seeing the photos of them that my aunt took along the trail. I’m hoping they liked it enough to do it again one of these days. I could use another hour or two of mental escape already myself.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Walk this way (or that way, or any way at all)
Yesterday, my mother and I took a 30-minute walk in the late afternoon. On Sunday after lunch, a friend and I took our daughters for a walk in the woods. On Saturday morning, I walked with my dog to the post office.
I absolutely love walking. Even though I ride my stationary bike for 45 minutes every morning and run at least two miles every day, I’ll take any chance I can get for a good stroll. Not for the exercise – unlike biking or running, when I’m walking I don’t worry about target heart rate. I don’t even particularly worry about continuity: I’m fine with stopping along the way to talk with a neighbor, inspect an unusual leaf that falls in my path or watch a deer cross a meadow, all of which are frequent occurrences while I’m out walking. If I’m alone, my mind wanders; if I’m walking with someone else, which is equally enjoyable, so does the conversation. It’s different for me from running. When I’m running, although the scenery and climate nearly always register, my primary focus is on the physical aspects of what I’m doing: my own footfalls and heartbeat.
When our town constructed footpaths a couple of years ago alongside the major roads, some residents were skeptical, claiming it wasn’t the lack of safe access that prevented more people from strolling around town; it was that people were busy doing other things. Those who want to walk, these skeptics claimed, take advantage of the miles of conservation trails that run through our town’s fields and forests.
I’m not sure if they’ve noticed what I have, but it seems to me that having footpaths in our town has not only changed people’s recreational practices but has in some ways changed the social fabric of the town. I run into neighbors, acquaintances and strangers all the time now when I’m out walking. The footpaths aren’t all that long; my suspicion is that people who wouldn’t bother with what they see as a real hike on one of the conservation trails still enjoy parking their car at the library and strolling a mile down Bedford Road and back. The footpaths cover some beautiful scenery in just a short distance, winding amidst stone walls, past ancient trees, near centuries-old houses and farms, through the quaint Town Center.
When I lived in the city I walked a lot too, although then it was out of necessity as well as preference; I didn’t have a car. I wasn’t surprised to see on the news this morning that Boston was just ranked second-highest for safe pedestrian access in a survey of 52 metropolitan areas nationwide done by the Transportation for America lobby group. Boston has sidewalks everywhere, usually fairly well-maintained, and a fabulous biking/walking path alongside the Charles River.
Derrick Z. Jackson writes in his Boston Globe column today about being in suburban Tampa and having to drive somewhere just to be able to take a walk safely. Even though the walking trail, when he finally reached it, was inviting, he disliked having to drive to it, and I understand that. Non-pedestrian-friendly regions go beyond feeling physically unsafe for walkers; they seem to convey a certain hostility, or at least coldness, as if walking, and its attendant meditative and/or social aspects, simply aren’t a priority there. (Or, as Jackson illustriously writes, “It is as if planners [in Tampa] viewed walking as a communicable disease and jogging as cancer.”)
During the two years that I was working in another suburb about a half-hour from here, I would go out at lunchtime and walk in a neighborhood not far from the office park where my company was located. It wasn’t a very attractive neighborhood – split-level homes on small lots – and it didn’t have sidewalks, but it also didn’t have much traffic. I found it uninspiring, but I was relieved just to get out of the office and walk.
Even though losing that job was nothing to celebrate, I can’t help feeling that my current situation – being self-employed and working from home – is in many ways far more congruent with my values, one of which is being able to take advantage of my natural surroundings. I feel so lucky that I can go running midmorning, walking with my mom in the afternoon, off for a short hike with the kids when they get home from school. (Holly was so enthusiastic about Sunday’s hike to Castle Rock that she insists she wants to do it soon again, although by yesterday the urge seemed to have already faded.)
On Twitter this morning I saw this quote from Lao Tzu: “If you want to stop being confused, join your body, mind, and spirit in all you do.” When I walk, that’s how I feel: that my body, mind and spirit have intertwined, at least for the duration of the walk. Making that happen in “all I do” might be a bit more of a challenge, but that’s a start.
I absolutely love walking. Even though I ride my stationary bike for 45 minutes every morning and run at least two miles every day, I’ll take any chance I can get for a good stroll. Not for the exercise – unlike biking or running, when I’m walking I don’t worry about target heart rate. I don’t even particularly worry about continuity: I’m fine with stopping along the way to talk with a neighbor, inspect an unusual leaf that falls in my path or watch a deer cross a meadow, all of which are frequent occurrences while I’m out walking. If I’m alone, my mind wanders; if I’m walking with someone else, which is equally enjoyable, so does the conversation. It’s different for me from running. When I’m running, although the scenery and climate nearly always register, my primary focus is on the physical aspects of what I’m doing: my own footfalls and heartbeat.
When our town constructed footpaths a couple of years ago alongside the major roads, some residents were skeptical, claiming it wasn’t the lack of safe access that prevented more people from strolling around town; it was that people were busy doing other things. Those who want to walk, these skeptics claimed, take advantage of the miles of conservation trails that run through our town’s fields and forests.
I’m not sure if they’ve noticed what I have, but it seems to me that having footpaths in our town has not only changed people’s recreational practices but has in some ways changed the social fabric of the town. I run into neighbors, acquaintances and strangers all the time now when I’m out walking. The footpaths aren’t all that long; my suspicion is that people who wouldn’t bother with what they see as a real hike on one of the conservation trails still enjoy parking their car at the library and strolling a mile down Bedford Road and back. The footpaths cover some beautiful scenery in just a short distance, winding amidst stone walls, past ancient trees, near centuries-old houses and farms, through the quaint Town Center.
When I lived in the city I walked a lot too, although then it was out of necessity as well as preference; I didn’t have a car. I wasn’t surprised to see on the news this morning that Boston was just ranked second-highest for safe pedestrian access in a survey of 52 metropolitan areas nationwide done by the Transportation for America lobby group. Boston has sidewalks everywhere, usually fairly well-maintained, and a fabulous biking/walking path alongside the Charles River.
Derrick Z. Jackson writes in his Boston Globe column today about being in suburban Tampa and having to drive somewhere just to be able to take a walk safely. Even though the walking trail, when he finally reached it, was inviting, he disliked having to drive to it, and I understand that. Non-pedestrian-friendly regions go beyond feeling physically unsafe for walkers; they seem to convey a certain hostility, or at least coldness, as if walking, and its attendant meditative and/or social aspects, simply aren’t a priority there. (Or, as Jackson illustriously writes, “It is as if planners [in Tampa] viewed walking as a communicable disease and jogging as cancer.”)
During the two years that I was working in another suburb about a half-hour from here, I would go out at lunchtime and walk in a neighborhood not far from the office park where my company was located. It wasn’t a very attractive neighborhood – split-level homes on small lots – and it didn’t have sidewalks, but it also didn’t have much traffic. I found it uninspiring, but I was relieved just to get out of the office and walk.
Even though losing that job was nothing to celebrate, I can’t help feeling that my current situation – being self-employed and working from home – is in many ways far more congruent with my values, one of which is being able to take advantage of my natural surroundings. I feel so lucky that I can go running midmorning, walking with my mom in the afternoon, off for a short hike with the kids when they get home from school. (Holly was so enthusiastic about Sunday’s hike to Castle Rock that she insists she wants to do it soon again, although by yesterday the urge seemed to have already faded.)
On Twitter this morning I saw this quote from Lao Tzu: “If you want to stop being confused, join your body, mind, and spirit in all you do.” When I walk, that’s how I feel: that my body, mind and spirit have intertwined, at least for the duration of the walk. Making that happen in “all I do” might be a bit more of a challenge, but that’s a start.
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