Why do I do it?
This is a question I ask myself often, usually on the long drive to some remote trail I'm hoping to tackle. Why do I do it? The "it" changes from adventure to adventure, and I've addressed some of the reasons in my last entry. For example, I rock climb to challenge my fear of heights. When I admit that, I have to acknowledge that a lot of what I do, I do to challenge fear. I ran a 50k because I thought I might not be able to...was I fearful? Not in the traditional sense, but I didn't want to fail, that's for sure. That's a fear-based perspective, fear of failure. I backpack alone to prove that I can.
So the next question I must ask myself, and I asked myself over and over last weekend in the Porkies, is "who am I proving something to?" Most of the time, I truly believe I'm doing things to prove them to myself. I had to challenge that this weekend, though, when I spent four hours shivering in my tent, dreading the night ahead, wishing I were home.
I had a rough first few hours on the trail. Even before I came across evidence of the bear on the North Mirror Lake Trail, I felt challenged by the task ahead. It started in the parking lot before I stepped foot on the trail, an unusual experience that challenged everything I felt about my own confidence in my answers to "aren't you scared?"
Standing in the parking lot, all of 5'2'' and a 30 pound pack, I sensed a vehicle ease up and stop behind me. The passenger called out, "Hey pal!" When I turned, he looked to his driver and said in exaggerated surprise, "It's a girl!" He proceeded to ask me a series of questions that I good-naturedly answered. Let's be honest, I'm proud of my backpacking and that it shocks men in trucks that little me is going it alone. He wanted to know first if I was going out rock-climbing. I laughed, thinking of the 30 pounds on my back, and said no, I was backpacking. He responded, "Oh, I thought I saw ropes on your pack." Though I know I had rope, I also know it was tucked into a pocket in the front of my pack with emergency supplies. He asked how far I go and I answered, "35-40 miles," with a shrug. He said, "Oh, so you're going overnight? Like in a tent? Won't it be cold?" I said I was prepared for the cold. He asked if I'd have a fire. How many nights. Did I have to register at headquarters.
It was the last question that stopped me, though not before I answered because I generally think most people are decent people. It was at that point, though, that I realized this man now had a tremendous amount of information about my plans. He could look at the registration stickers in the front of my car and know when to expect me back, which also told him how many days it would be before someone was looking for me. He could surmise that I was alone, though I didn't say so specifically. I also started to ruminate on the idea that he might have pretended to think I was a boy. Again, 5' 2'' and in leggings, I probably don't really look like a boy from the back. Then I considered he might have pretended to think I was rock climbing to ask me a bunch of questions in a disarmed, conversational fashion. He seemed amazingly uninformed and interested to be a guy actually IN a state park at the time. As I walked off to the trailhead, I watched the vehicle pull toward the exit and then bypass it to whip back into the parking area. I kept moving and quick. Sadly, because I'm really proud of being brave on the trail, that interaction set the tone for the next 24 hours.
After slogging through a mile and a half of water sometimes 3-4 inches deep and another 2.5 miles through a foot and a half of snow, I was pretty sure no one, not even the most diabolical bad person would be following me. I could have taken any number of different trails at the start. The trail conditions were grueling. I didn't see anyone or hear anyone and I was LISTENING! It was dark an hour before I got to camp. I trudged up the hill to Mirror Lake Camp 1. Perched atop a hill and off the trail, I felt a little more comfortable, though my tracks shone obviously in the snow and my headlamp would give my location away. No part of me really believed that someone was out there, but I couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling. I was mad at myself for engaging in conversation. I was mad at myself for naively responding to questions for no other reason than to be polite. I was mad at myself that I was scared.
Despite being physically tired, I read a book for hours. I like to go out in the woods for the solitude. It helps me with my writing. It clears my head. It sparks creativity. Instead, every time I put my book down and let my mind wander, it went back to the conversation, to the sounds outside my flimsy nylon shelter, to what if. So, I read until I fell asleep, but not before I grappled with the question that's not uncommon in my adventures....Why am I doing this?
I know I can. I've backpacked the Porkies before. I've slept in a tent in the snow. I've traveled alone. So, did I really have to prove it to myself again? I thought about how it would feel to hike back through the four miles of trail I knew I could find in the snow because I'd broken them the day before and climb into my car, to turn on the seat warmers (a luxury my little 2006 Honda Civic Hybrid does NOT have, but that my husband's car does). I thought about surprising my little people by coming home early. I thought about giving up. I thought about my cold, cold toes. I thought about three more nights, further from the parking lot and "safer" than I currently felt, but certainly still cold and alone and quite possibly still afraid. I thought about abandoning the adventure for the safety and comfort of my own home and I "quit."
I put that in quotes for a reason. It was quitting, but it wasn't. Guys, I grappled with this decision and here's what it came down to: If I was doing this to prove it to someone else, quitting would be a failure, but if that was the case, was doing it for the right reason? If I was doing it for me, was I really getting out of it what I wanted? The answer to both questions was no. And so I went home.
I have rarely enjoyed more four miles of hiking through snow and slop than I enjoyed that four miles on Saturday. I was overjoyed at the imagined faces of my children when I slipped through the door unexpected. I appreciated the challenge of the hiking I was doing, balancing on snow covered logs and hopping from rock to rock through the rivers of trail. I almost didn't care that my feet were giant ice cubes. I trudged up the final hill like a speedwalker, remembering how hard that hike had been the last time I'd taken it back to the parking lot two years before. I had made the right choice.
I know me. I'll need to do this again someday because someday the challenge will be about me again. As much as it was the right decision this time around, I don't like having given up. I'll adjust for the time of year, maybe stay in a cabin later in the winter where a fire can dry my boots and I have the comfort of a door and a lock. I probably won't talk to strangers in the parking lot and I'll invest in some trekking poles. But this time, this time it was right to come home, to abandon the pursuit and to accept that it's what was best for me.
I've never had an adventure without coming home with a new perspective. Lesson learned.
So the next question I must ask myself, and I asked myself over and over last weekend in the Porkies, is "who am I proving something to?" Most of the time, I truly believe I'm doing things to prove them to myself. I had to challenge that this weekend, though, when I spent four hours shivering in my tent, dreading the night ahead, wishing I were home.
I had a rough first few hours on the trail. Even before I came across evidence of the bear on the North Mirror Lake Trail, I felt challenged by the task ahead. It started in the parking lot before I stepped foot on the trail, an unusual experience that challenged everything I felt about my own confidence in my answers to "aren't you scared?"
Standing in the parking lot, all of 5'2'' and a 30 pound pack, I sensed a vehicle ease up and stop behind me. The passenger called out, "Hey pal!" When I turned, he looked to his driver and said in exaggerated surprise, "It's a girl!" He proceeded to ask me a series of questions that I good-naturedly answered. Let's be honest, I'm proud of my backpacking and that it shocks men in trucks that little me is going it alone. He wanted to know first if I was going out rock-climbing. I laughed, thinking of the 30 pounds on my back, and said no, I was backpacking. He responded, "Oh, I thought I saw ropes on your pack." Though I know I had rope, I also know it was tucked into a pocket in the front of my pack with emergency supplies. He asked how far I go and I answered, "35-40 miles," with a shrug. He said, "Oh, so you're going overnight? Like in a tent? Won't it be cold?" I said I was prepared for the cold. He asked if I'd have a fire. How many nights. Did I have to register at headquarters.
It was the last question that stopped me, though not before I answered because I generally think most people are decent people. It was at that point, though, that I realized this man now had a tremendous amount of information about my plans. He could look at the registration stickers in the front of my car and know when to expect me back, which also told him how many days it would be before someone was looking for me. He could surmise that I was alone, though I didn't say so specifically. I also started to ruminate on the idea that he might have pretended to think I was a boy. Again, 5' 2'' and in leggings, I probably don't really look like a boy from the back. Then I considered he might have pretended to think I was rock climbing to ask me a bunch of questions in a disarmed, conversational fashion. He seemed amazingly uninformed and interested to be a guy actually IN a state park at the time. As I walked off to the trailhead, I watched the vehicle pull toward the exit and then bypass it to whip back into the parking area. I kept moving and quick. Sadly, because I'm really proud of being brave on the trail, that interaction set the tone for the next 24 hours.
After slogging through a mile and a half of water sometimes 3-4 inches deep and another 2.5 miles through a foot and a half of snow, I was pretty sure no one, not even the most diabolical bad person would be following me. I could have taken any number of different trails at the start. The trail conditions were grueling. I didn't see anyone or hear anyone and I was LISTENING! It was dark an hour before I got to camp. I trudged up the hill to Mirror Lake Camp 1. Perched atop a hill and off the trail, I felt a little more comfortable, though my tracks shone obviously in the snow and my headlamp would give my location away. No part of me really believed that someone was out there, but I couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling. I was mad at myself for engaging in conversation. I was mad at myself for naively responding to questions for no other reason than to be polite. I was mad at myself that I was scared.
I know I can. I've backpacked the Porkies before. I've slept in a tent in the snow. I've traveled alone. So, did I really have to prove it to myself again? I thought about how it would feel to hike back through the four miles of trail I knew I could find in the snow because I'd broken them the day before and climb into my car, to turn on the seat warmers (a luxury my little 2006 Honda Civic Hybrid does NOT have, but that my husband's car does). I thought about surprising my little people by coming home early. I thought about giving up. I thought about my cold, cold toes. I thought about three more nights, further from the parking lot and "safer" than I currently felt, but certainly still cold and alone and quite possibly still afraid. I thought about abandoning the adventure for the safety and comfort of my own home and I "quit."
I put that in quotes for a reason. It was quitting, but it wasn't. Guys, I grappled with this decision and here's what it came down to: If I was doing this to prove it to someone else, quitting would be a failure, but if that was the case, was doing it for the right reason? If I was doing it for me, was I really getting out of it what I wanted? The answer to both questions was no. And so I went home.
I have rarely enjoyed more four miles of hiking through snow and slop than I enjoyed that four miles on Saturday. I was overjoyed at the imagined faces of my children when I slipped through the door unexpected. I appreciated the challenge of the hiking I was doing, balancing on snow covered logs and hopping from rock to rock through the rivers of trail. I almost didn't care that my feet were giant ice cubes. I trudged up the final hill like a speedwalker, remembering how hard that hike had been the last time I'd taken it back to the parking lot two years before. I had made the right choice.
I know me. I'll need to do this again someday because someday the challenge will be about me again. As much as it was the right decision this time around, I don't like having given up. I'll adjust for the time of year, maybe stay in a cabin later in the winter where a fire can dry my boots and I have the comfort of a door and a lock. I probably won't talk to strangers in the parking lot and I'll invest in some trekking poles. But this time, this time it was right to come home, to abandon the pursuit and to accept that it's what was best for me.
I've never had an adventure without coming home with a new perspective. Lesson learned.
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