wild
“Uncertain as I was as I pushed forward, I felt right in my pushing, as if the effort itself meant something. That perhaps being amidst the undesecrated beauty of the wilderness meant I too could be undesecrated, regardless of the regrettable things I'd done to others or myself or the regrettable things that had been done to me. Of all the things I'd been skeptical about, I didn't feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me.”
I read a book recently that had a profound impact on me. Actually, I took the time to consume many books over the past six months when I started my journey west. I realized very quickly that my voracious appetite for books wasn't diminished, just dormant. It might seem a strange goal to incorporate more literary experiences into my daily life, but I wasn't making time to simply let my mind wander into the wild and escape from the complacent situation I created for myself.
When I was a child, and barely able to hold a book in my lap, the world was so much more easily accessible and inspiring through books. Escaping to Victorian-age England, sweeping over landscapes via hovercraft and exploring the dark corners of the world became commonplace. A small-town girl observing the world and absorbing life lessons through a creative lens. It's no surprise that I equate certain literary works with real-life events and milestones during my path from Indiana girlhood to Seattle adulthood.
So back to that book. Because it's sparked an idea. One that I intend to pursue. When I read Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, I found myself unable to put it down. Not because of her exploits. Not because her life is like mine. The details didn't matter so much. The candid nature of the writing, however, struck me. The ability to recall. The forgiveness of self and of those who populate our lives. The stupidity and naivete of taking on the Pacific Crest Trail alone and without sufficient knowledge. And in the end, the magnificence of simply throwing oneself into the unknown and coming out the other side. Understanding that at many times during our lives it's about putting one foot in front of the other, literally. Knowing when to follow your instincts and when to push past them.
In that spirit, I'm contemplating doing something very "unlike" me. And that, my friends, is THE point of doing it. This summer I'd like to make the 42-mile hike around Mt. Hood. Have I ever hiked any length of time longer than one afternoon? No. Have I any clue what this will entail? No. Have I any idea what I will encounter? No. Have I lost my mind? Possibly. Have I any doubt that I will learn a lot about myself and anyone who comes along for the experience? I have no doubt.
It may seem strange to others, who for some reason have often looked at me as not being "outdoorsy" enough to enjoy this type of experience. However, I am very in tune with that part of myself. I see the beauty of wind sweeping through the marsh grass, the brutality and exhilaration of a strong ocean undertow, the stillness and heightened sense of awareness when alone in untouched forest. I find pleasure in the tiny beautiful things: leaf patterns, reflections in water, a perfect dahlia, the smell of moss in the trees after it rains. Romanticizing nature, however, isn't what brings me here. It's that I'm not sure I can do it. Thus, its appeal. And for still others who will tell me "42 miles is nothing compared to the Pacific Crest Trail" or "do you think copycatting an experience will derive the same results?" The truth, plainly, is this: it's a springboard. Designed to make me actually follow-through. This is just me dipping my toes in before I run headlong into the fray. Walking (or hiking) before running, if that's a better comparison.
Stay tuned, there is likely to be a random string of entries related to my incredible lack of preparation for something like this. But then, that's just the "thinking." Getting out of the car and putting one foot in front of the other will be the "doing."
“I made it the mantra of those days; when I paused before yet another series of switchbacks or skidded down knee-jarring slopes, when patches of flesh peeled off my feet along with my socks, when I lay alone and lonely in my tent at night I asked, often out loud: Who is tougher than me?
The answer was always the same, and even when I knew absolutely there was no way on this earth that it was true, I said it anyway: No one.”
― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail
I read a book recently that had a profound impact on me. Actually, I took the time to consume many books over the past six months when I started my journey west. I realized very quickly that my voracious appetite for books wasn't diminished, just dormant. It might seem a strange goal to incorporate more literary experiences into my daily life, but I wasn't making time to simply let my mind wander into the wild and escape from the complacent situation I created for myself.
When I was a child, and barely able to hold a book in my lap, the world was so much more easily accessible and inspiring through books. Escaping to Victorian-age England, sweeping over landscapes via hovercraft and exploring the dark corners of the world became commonplace. A small-town girl observing the world and absorbing life lessons through a creative lens. It's no surprise that I equate certain literary works with real-life events and milestones during my path from Indiana girlhood to Seattle adulthood.
So back to that book. Because it's sparked an idea. One that I intend to pursue. When I read Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, I found myself unable to put it down. Not because of her exploits. Not because her life is like mine. The details didn't matter so much. The candid nature of the writing, however, struck me. The ability to recall. The forgiveness of self and of those who populate our lives. The stupidity and naivete of taking on the Pacific Crest Trail alone and without sufficient knowledge. And in the end, the magnificence of simply throwing oneself into the unknown and coming out the other side. Understanding that at many times during our lives it's about putting one foot in front of the other, literally. Knowing when to follow your instincts and when to push past them.
In that spirit, I'm contemplating doing something very "unlike" me. And that, my friends, is THE point of doing it. This summer I'd like to make the 42-mile hike around Mt. Hood. Have I ever hiked any length of time longer than one afternoon? No. Have I any clue what this will entail? No. Have I any idea what I will encounter? No. Have I lost my mind? Possibly. Have I any doubt that I will learn a lot about myself and anyone who comes along for the experience? I have no doubt.
It may seem strange to others, who for some reason have often looked at me as not being "outdoorsy" enough to enjoy this type of experience. However, I am very in tune with that part of myself. I see the beauty of wind sweeping through the marsh grass, the brutality and exhilaration of a strong ocean undertow, the stillness and heightened sense of awareness when alone in untouched forest. I find pleasure in the tiny beautiful things: leaf patterns, reflections in water, a perfect dahlia, the smell of moss in the trees after it rains. Romanticizing nature, however, isn't what brings me here. It's that I'm not sure I can do it. Thus, its appeal. And for still others who will tell me "42 miles is nothing compared to the Pacific Crest Trail" or "do you think copycatting an experience will derive the same results?" The truth, plainly, is this: it's a springboard. Designed to make me actually follow-through. This is just me dipping my toes in before I run headlong into the fray. Walking (or hiking) before running, if that's a better comparison.
Stay tuned, there is likely to be a random string of entries related to my incredible lack of preparation for something like this. But then, that's just the "thinking." Getting out of the car and putting one foot in front of the other will be the "doing."
“I made it the mantra of those days; when I paused before yet another series of switchbacks or skidded down knee-jarring slopes, when patches of flesh peeled off my feet along with my socks, when I lay alone and lonely in my tent at night I asked, often out loud: Who is tougher than me?
The answer was always the same, and even when I knew absolutely there was no way on this earth that it was true, I said it anyway: No one.”
― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail
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