Now, Hiking Down The Mountain

There is a difference between being alone and being lonely. This is what I was thinking as I finished my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, took one more look at the amazing view, and started down from the summit of Bear Mountain toward Paradise Lane Trail to complete the Undermountain Trail loop in Salisbury. 

My body felt stiff after sitting for 20 minutes or so, but the food had energized me, and the sun was out, which felt great after the long summer of grayness and rain. Just as I was leaving, a middle-aged couple arrived. Seeing I was heading to the right instead of the left back down the trail I had come up, he said, “Oh, you’re taking the hard way.” I smiled and brushed him off, “Oh really?” I said, continuing on my way. People were so dramatic, I couldn’t help thinking. It’s not like we’re in the Andes for goodness sake! Should I have brought the oxygen tanks after all? (smiley face here).

My head was too wrapped up thinking about being alone and how it felt after so many years (25? More?) of being part of a couple, having a kid, a busy job in the city, friends, dinner parties, endless togetherness. Did I feel lonely? As my body warmed up, I could hear my breath and my heart beating in my chest. Along the tops of the trees I could see a line of smoky blue, the mountains in the distance, and a sky full of puffy clouds like the drawings I used to make as a child. The trail crossed several large boulders and suddenly made a sharp turn to the right. At that moment I realized what the kind man who had just meant to be helpful had tried to tell me. (Maybe I did have an issue with authority?)

I stood at the top of what looked like a dry waterfall. Rocks tumbled down the face of the mountain as far as the eye could see, the only indication of a trail thanks to the hash marks painted intermittently on the scrubby trees growing out of the rocks. Due to the summer rain, it was slick, and I didn’t see a way down that looked even vaguely safe. My mother always had a nervous laugh, and I guess I do too. Chuckling to myself, I imagined strapping on one of those crazy wingsuits I’d seen on some outdoor adventure show and flying down the face of this mountain. Believe it or not, it seemed a safer option than relying on my worn-out boots from 1996 and my circa 1967 legs. 

It was hard not to think of something I’d heard my father say many years ago: It’s coming down you need to think about. Perhaps I was now the one being dramatic, but just 30 minutes before I had been bathing in the glory of reaching the modest summit of the highest point in Connecticut, my goal for the day. Climbing up was the challenge, right? The way down was an afterthought. 

So, I did what one does other than turn around, which is what many normal people might do. I stood there for a moment, took a deep breath, and started down, very slowly. For the next 30 minutes or more I used every ounce of concentration I had to navigate my way across the slippery rocks at an almost vertical pitch. I used my entire body, at times skimming along my bum, my hands and arms as critical in finding balance as my legs. I completely lost track of everything else in the world. 

When I finally reached the bottom of the cliff, my legs wobbled and shook like overcooked spaghetti and my hands were red and stiff. In a daze, I sat down on a dry rock at the side of the trail and sipped the last of my water and bit into the apple I’d brought. My overwrought brain was empty. 

Here is where I might say something profound. I might say something about how challenges often come when we least expect them, how being in control is just a form of denial, or how fortunate I am to be a healthy, middle-aged woman even if I had created a bit of a mess of my life recently. And I did think about those things. But what I was grateful for most of all at that moment was very simple: the coolness of the water from my kitchen tap, the sharp crunch of the apple I had picked from a friend’s orchard the day before, the leveling of the path ahead, and the iced latte at Provisions I would treat myself to when this hike was over. 

This is the second part of an article published last week, Sept 20-27.