Hiking alone in the mountains north of Los Angeles, I inevitably would dwell on the danger of what I was doing. How vulnerable I was to lurking rattlesnakes, mountain lions, rockfalls, and even violent men. I became more cautious over time, carrying a first aid kit and pepper spray. I even traded shorts for long pants, but nothing so bad ever happened and I never gave up the solitude.
Going into those mountains alone was how I re-centered myself each weekend. It was how I could best remember my own strength and endurance to combat anxiety and grief in the rest of my life. The risk was worth it.
Life’s unexpected circumstances
At an earlier time in my life, I had been a dedicated runner – I ran through the city streets at dawn or with friends on trails through the Griffith Park hills at dusk, headlamps illuminating the path at our feet. A knee injury and a surgery put an end to those trail runs, but I can see now that my later time in the mountains was reparation for this loss, in full measure.
Last summer, my knee failed again, and I left California for Ohio. There are no mountains here.
My third surgery has left me unable to hike without pain. I again have had to find new ways to be outside and feel my power. I bike on quiet, paved paths that skirt soybean and soccer fields. Then I pass through tunnels of green forest and over shallow streams. I have learned how to scull, how to row the slenderest of boats in one of the oldest of sports. Our river is not as pristine as my mountains were, but when we row, we quickly lose sight of the city and spot foxes and raccoons and beavers and herons on the forested riverbanks. The speed, grace, and whole-body effort required are completely intoxicating.
I see that the cycle has repeated, that the river is recompense for the loss of my mountains. There is always another way to be under the sun.