Hiking Si

I don’t hike much on my own.  I can count the solo hikes I’ve been on pretty quickly–only one.  For me it’s similar to going to a bar alone.  Sure, I could, but why? I like company and conversation.  I like the feeling of working towards something with someone on a hike or a climb. So I was surprised last night when I started to plan a hike by myself without even thinking to ask anyone else if they wanted to join.  My achilles is still sore and after skiing all morning I wanted to do something at my own pace, without worrying about coordinating or discussing if turning around was a good idea.  Funny enough, a few friends of mine didn’t have the same solo trip in mind, but did want to do the same hike.  I went to sleep not sure if we were meeting up or not, but sure that I’d be headed out in the morning.

The drive out to North Bend was easy– little traffic, a little sun glare on the road.  I brought the dogs (so maybe this doesn’t really count as a solo hike?) and the trailhead parking lot was the emptiest I’ve seen for a midmorning start.

The first mile or so felt like another world.  There was sun in Seattle, but here it was mist and fog blurring between the trees.  Moss hung, mud squealched and we plodded along.  I heard the snow before I saw it, falling in thick clumps out of the trees.  I love the way snow slowly takes over as you switchback up a mountain. At first it’s visible just a little higher up, in tree branches and through the woods.  Then the trail starts to get slushy in shaded areas, mud melding in to packed snow and footprints. Eventually you turn and realize that snow is on all the branches and the light rain has switched over to flakes.  I put on my micro spikes and we countinued up for another mile or so until the dogs started to shiver and we turned around. 

On the way back we ran in to my friends on their way up. We gave hugs all around and chatted until the dogs started to whine and we continued our separate ways. 

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Skyline Lake

The moments that echo are sometimes so small. Jodie and I decided to go snow shoeing last week, up to Skyline Lake. It’s an easy hike… a little steep but the switchbacks make it feel easier and all told it was just around three miles round trip. I had two maps folded in my pocket, protected in a zip lock, but we never needed them. We met a few people along the way but had the trail to ourselves for the most part. The lake was completely covered in ice and snow- it looked like a clearing in the woods more than a body of water. We paused at the edge and watched the pines across the lake sway almost imperceptibly in the wind. And although I hadn’t thought of it in years, suddenly I remembered the first time I did any yoga. Lois Harrod was leading us in simple sun salutations for a break between classes at Governor’s School. 12 teenagers, closing our eyes in mountain pose, feeling the grass of TCNJ on our toes and letting the summer sounds of the campus wash over us.

I don’t stay in touch with any of these people, but lately I’ve been thinking about them a lot. Laura’s laugh, Justin’s quiet strength as we stretched before heading out for a run before the day properly started. The guy I never really liked who called me a deer and wrote about sex in a confusing physical shape that was driven by want and not experience. But we were in high school. So much was awkward want. I know that Joey has a baby now, and makes beautiful objects like teapots and speakers. Justin has a baby too. Susannah’s smile is still broad and joyful, Laura has a dog and lives near D.C.  I know these things from social media and the occasional email.

I don’t write anymore. At least, I haven’t in a while. But I do yoga, and I move my body and still think of the the world in poetic form. Jodie and I kept going past the lake- we kept heading up the ridge until we found a garden of boulders, almost covered in snow. She kicked forward, plunging her pole to look for holes, and I followed. At the top we could see the valley, skiers like rice grains, fog and clouds rolling through. The wind bit at us and trees swayed but the ground we stood on was stable.

After Christmas I worked on a print from the boulder garden. I’m not sure it’s finished – but it will do for now.

Final(ish) print

Sky is too heavy.

Too dark, not enough light in the snow/sky.

First test print with ink.

Test print with stamp ink.

Before any printing.

Sketching out the plate.

Reference material and start of the print.

Somewhere in the middle of the tunnel

This morning I was talking to a friend of mine at work—a climber and dear friend who has known me longer than my boyfriend.  “How was the gym?” she asks, and I shrugged.

“Fine, but frustrating.” I tell her about a conversation I had with my boyfriend… I wasn’t feeling strong and I was trying to do the drills that Audrey put together for me—climbing mildly overhung easier routes with first one leg, then the other, then hovering over each hold before making contact.

“So… what exactly is this supposed to be doing?” he asked. I was crushed. I don’t think he meant anything by it, but it sounded so dismissive and I’m already so uncertain about training immediately all of the reasons Audrey gave me flew out of my head.

Later, I walked back to the weight room. Even half a dozen people makes the space feel crowded, and everyone seemed to have their timers going. There was one other woman, stretching, but she left fairly quickly. The rings were well above my reach, two guys were setting up lat pulls, there was a guy on the rowing machine, and a few guys were using the free weights. My boyfriend and his friend were doing core work and pull ups.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a woman in the weight room doing anything besides the bike. I can’t remember a single time I’ve been back there and the women outnumbered the men. My boyfriend asked “how much longer do you have?” and I shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not doing my routine…” I gestured around the gym. “There isn’t room.”

The guy on the rings offered to let me cycle in—but I didn’t want to throw off his rest cycles and I would need to readjust everything and it just felt impossible. I took long enough stretching out that the gym slowly cleared and I got everything in, but that isn’t really the point. (When the guy on the rings left, he lowered everything for me… because everyone really is very nice, but that isn’t what this is about.)

I know I shouldn’t be crushed so easily, I know that I belong in the weight room just as much as any of the dudes (and have I mentioned that they are ALL always SO NICE? Not in a creepy way either, just genuinely helpful and kind). I know that I should have the will power to train on my own. I know that it will make me stronger and when I am stronger I will be happier… except, really? Will I be happier? I watch strong climbers still get frustrated when they can’t send a V6… while they dance up my project to get to the crux of their own project.

I used to find joy and grace in climbing. It used to be a safe place for me, where my friends congregated, what we did on weekends. It used to be something that was emotionally easy, not fraught. I don’t entirely know what shifted, and I keep trying to regain some of that ease that I had. One of my oldest climbing friends finally finished school and she and I have been meeting up again—that’s a good thing. And I’ve slowly starting to lead again, and it feels good. I’m scared though. I’m scared that I’m going to get injured and have to take months off again. I’m scared that the months off I had to take this year have knocked me so far back and out of habit that I’m starting over. I’m scared that helping run She Rocks has made it nearly impossible to do my own climbing—that I’ve helped start a community by failing myself. I’m scared that to focus on my own climbing means abandoning the community that means a lot to me, but I don’t have the partners to climb with if I don’t have the community.

I know nothing is as drastic as it feels. I know that anything goes in waves and I’m just in that transition, coming off of tendonitis, transitioning from weight training back in to climbing, transitioning from my own schedule to trying to match schedules with partners. I just wish it felt easier sometimes, and that I could feel as strong as I did that summer when I was working on leading 11’s at the gym, when I climbed through three partners in one night. Before I fractured my wrist, before I gave myself tendonitis, before friends moved away and lives changed and grew apart.

If there’s light at the middle of the tunnel, it’s knowing that I’ll be headed to Laos to see one of the first women I climbed with – we’re climbing, sure, but we’re also just having an adventure. And after that there’s the Flash Foxy festival down in Bishop. I want to be strong for both of these things, to work and learn from women, to laugh at the base of a climb and try something I think is above my ability and to do it anyway. And the only way to get there is to figure out a way to train and block out the voice that crushes me—in the weight room, in the bouldering area, on lead… because it’s just me, shutting myself down. But goddamn, it’s hard sometimes.