I caught a ride to a trailhead recently on a sunny Sunday morning. The triathlon training plan I have carefully mapped out day by day on my Google calendar had an all-caps, all-day instruction for me to REST.
However, my husband was taking our car up into the hills so he could run and I figured a walk couldn't hurt me. Besides, since both fall and the weekend last about two seconds, it seems like sacrilege to stay indoors when the sun shines.
Surprisingly, the parking lot was only half full after it rained much of the night. We arrived together and were the only people in the parking lot. Then my husband trotted off, and I found myself with no chatty friend, no dog, no bike, no headphones, no delicious snacks and no real purpose other than walking.
I felt naked.
Still, I did what I'd set out to do and started walking. I was delighted by the things around me, my body and its ability to move me around, and the way I noticed my thoughts. I realized it had been a very long time since I'd walked like this, with no express purpose.
Whats walking, again?
Let me remind you what walking is. This is the very slow kind of running, where you wear more layers and breathe easier, smelling things and worrying much less about footing. Your heart rate isn't (usually) a factor, and there's not (usually) a monitor. It's not just a series of steps you take around the office, in parking lots and shopping malls that a computer wristband calculates and beeps joyously up at you once you've logged a certain number.
Let me appeal to your (and my) secret, deep down Luddite, the one that loves Alaska in all of its glory. Look around. This surprises me every time. Details are everywhere. There are yellow leaves, mountainsides and snow creeping down the mountains. There are earthy smells, a cold feeling in my nose and the crinkling sounds of leaves underfoot. It's kind of amazing.
I prefer the word "walk" to "hike" because it seems to me that hiking has an inherent purpose. I don't "hike" around. I hike to something. Maybe I bring trekking poles, and typically I have a backpack. Hiking involves planning. Walking is meandering.
'Life is lonely'
I used to do all sorts of things alone back in the day. While I enjoyed being alone, I worried that I could wind up lonely. Nonetheless, I traveled alone, took myself out to dinner and movies, and hiked up mountains — all things that can evoke pity when done alone. I loved it, though. I liked being in my head. When I was alone I met people, made my own decisions, stayed as long as I wanted or left as soon as I'd arrived.
For example, my first week as a broke, car-less intern in Alaska, I bought a blue beater bicycle for $50 (named "Old Bones" because it creaked) and loaded it into the front of the then-Mat-Su shuttle bus. I took the bus to the Wal-Mart parking lot in the Valley and ogled the snow-covered peaks, laughing to myself that this must be the most beautiful view from a Wal-Mart in the world. Then I stopped in Palmer for a few hours, taking Old Bones for a spin toward the shuttered fairgrounds and stunning views of Pioneer Peak. More pictures, more memories — and these were by me, just for me.
When I was 16, a person I looked up to told me plainly: Life is lonely. At the time I thought it was the most horrifying thing I'd ever heard. But over time, I came to understand what she was saying: No matter how many people I love or who love me, at the end of the day it's always just me knocking around in my own head. I am uniquely isolated in my own head, for better and for worse, and the communications and connections I build with other people are work, for them and for me. It's not a bad thing. But ultimately, even with the strongest and healthiest relationships, my mind will always be mine and mine alone.
Now I actually take comfort in that. I realize that in order to be in good working order for my relationships — family, friends and work — I need to be aware of what's happening in my head.
Outdoors time helps me square myself away day to day. I joke that when I don't exercise outside I get cranky, but the truth is I just get kind of lost and dull. One of my running role model's kids once put it succinctly at age 8: "When mommy doesn't run, she gets stupid."
Running and biking provide my outdoor exercise fix, often as part of a fairly rigid training plan. For these activities I usually have other people with me. Actually, right now much of my social life revolves around being outdoors, which is fantastic and fun.
Better than OK
But where does that leave the idea of just being alone, with no particular destination or timeline? When I am able to be by myself, at my own pace and calling my own shots on where I go, when I sit down and when it's time to turn back, I am free. And when I'm free, I notice thoughts that arise.
I can decide, for instance, that I have an incorrect or unhelpful interpretation of something that's bothering me. I can decide to re-write it and move on. I can actually decide that berating myself for a silly thing at work or other interaction doesn't matter — especially not in the face of how big and awesome life in Alaska is. The scene around me changes, both in reality as I walk farther and because I pay attention to it. It's pretty out. It's fall. The leaves smell nice. There is termination dust on the mountains and the air is sharp.
Walking up a trail alone now as opposed to when I was younger is significantly different. Instead of worrying that I'll never have the life I want, I have a feeling that a lot of good things are in place. Everything is constantly going to shift and settle around and within me as long as I'm alive. Things come and go. Overall, the feeling I have now compared to then is it's OK. I'm OK. I'm better than OK.
About that naked feeling of showing up at a trailhead alone: So what? No one is as aware of me as I am. I like to smile at the other people I see on the trail. I like encountering them and knowing that we are each having our own experiences of the same place. This is the inverse of "life is lonely". We each get our own life. Even though some — many, hopefully — parts are shared, it's ultimately all mine and all yours.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.