Dressed and ready, I cued my music and stepped into the early morning. Only furrows of hail remained from the storm; white, snaking over the inky blackness of the street. Storm clouds lingered, adding layers of darkness by blocking light from stars and the brilliance of the strawberry moon. Giant ebony puddles overflowed from every dip and depression in the asphalt, shining with bright reflections from street lights and stop lights.
The instant I pushed play, music moved through my blood like fire, urging my muscles to ignite. Dodging water, I vowed to take it easy and get my feet back under me. It was quiet; birds still sleeping, maybe still huddled from the storm, and no traffic. My shoes kissing the street and my breathing were the only sounds breaching the silence. My soul yearned for this solitude as I merged to the middle of the road, hugging the center line. This was my town. My feet have left prints on nearly every street north, east, south and west. Some days the run challenged, other days it soothed, sometimes it was a chore and days like today the run is a need. My playlist, although set to shuffle, felt my mood; we would be rocking today.
The first mile is always the most difficult. My body and mind act like spinster sisters, spatting constantly at one another, making each step a chore. Gauging my first mile by the songs in my ears and the time it takes to hit turn points I estimate a fairly slow mile. Blocking out any negative thoughts this might spur, I just run.
Warm air, hovering close to 50 degrees, makes my mood soar. Periodically, spray from the wet road kicks up from my shoes, dotting the back of my legs. As I make my first turn, half a mile in, I smile. Steam covers my path, rising up from the wet streets like wispy phantoms. Plunging headlong into their midst I am briefly swallowed up only to emerge unscathed on the other side. Making my second turn I enjoy not having seen a single vehicle. Swinging wide, I avoid a puddle leaving the clear glass surface to reflect the blinking stoplights. Mentally I calculate my split as I near the end of the first mile. Anticipating the buzz on my wrist, as I cross the intersection, I look down, 8:15, quicker than I estimated. A good first mile split gears me up for a faster run with a strong desire to push rather than coast. The music zooming through my spirit agreed.
Stretching out my stride I think about how many runs have been in cruise control; going through the motions even when my soul cried out for more. In life, I have found myself simply going through the motions, acting as a spectator while real life happened around me. I thought about our weekend and the mountain.
As a family we went off the grid to celebrate my oldest's birthday and Father's Day. Preparation for these trips is always systematic and, at times, frustrating. 1,000 little things become irritants, perspective gets lost and auto-pilot engages. Once we were finally en-route, though, I took a few deep breaths and really looked around. We've traveled this interstate hundreds of times, but had I really noticed the old buildings next to the road, the way the mountains perched on the horizon like sleeping giants, or how clouds drifted and tickled peaks casting shadows over the valleys like birds of prey swooping over the fields? Maybe I've noticed some of those things, but more often I was lost in the movement to the next destination. How easy it was to go through the motions, simply existing rather than experiencing.
Beginning my ascent up the killer hill at the end of my second mile, I thought about our traditional camping spot and the surrounding mountains and hills. Once off the interstate we travel a dirt road that has felt our tires many times over the last 15 to 20 years. We know every copse of trees, every dip in the road, every turn and recognize every vast and beautiful mountain top. As we drove in this weekend I remember thinking how amazing the view would be from the top of any of those mountains. For almost 20 years I have watched, on cruise control, without ever really seeing or thinking about the beauty beyond. A fierce desire rose from my heart to not simply view the mountains from the windows of a car, but to go beyond what most people see. At that moment I knew we would climb a mountain.
My wrist buzzed, sharing a decent second mile. Pushing harder, I wandered back to the weekend.
After we were settled and fed, I broached the idea of hiking a mountain. I was passionate enough to climb by myself, but would enjoy sharing the experience with my boys. In mutual agreement we hopped into the CanAm in search of our mountain. It was a moment to treasure as our oldest drove, our youngest was in the passenger side, and the hubs and I, with our puppy, in the back. Memories flooded my mind of small boys anxiously hoping to be out of a car seat, then hoping to be big enough to ride up front and now to be passengers as they drove. We drove and I searched. I honestly didn't know what mountain would call us, but watched and waited. Through the trees it finally jumped out at me. It was peaked to a point at top and the walk seemed fairly easy and open without trees blocking the view. Pointing it out, we all agreed and the adventure began.
Dark skies loomed in every direction with the threat of a storm lurking ominously in the air. Questioning looks flew between my three boys as we began to hike up to one of the highest peaks just as lightning zig-zagged in the black clouds to the north. Inherently I knew we would be fine.
Leaving the CanAm, we had a significant drop into a wooded ravine before we started up the other side. Aspen trees, scrub oak, grass, sagebrush and other plants painted the landscape of the ravine making it tricky to find good footing. Our little Ally dog was thrilled hopping downed logs and making her way through an environment that had to be hundreds of times more difficult with her short little Shi Tzu legs. Chattering, we neared the botttom of the ravine, and heard a familiar crash. Instantly quiet, we listened as we heard branches breaking and the rush of an animal running through the trees. We had jumped something, maybe a deer or elk, but with the thick trees it was gone before we could know what it was. A small stream tumbled through the bottom, making the area perfect for hiding. It provided everything an animal needed, food, water and a safe, hidden area. It was secure, even just 100's of feet below the road. How many times had we driven right by this ravine with animals hidden securely in the bottom?
Beginning the ascent we paused often to look around, watching clouds roll across the hills, storms to form and the sun to peek out. Wildflowers in red, orange, purple, yellow and white were a brilliant contrast to the blue-green sage and the brilliant green of the mountain grass. Quartz dotted the hillside, shimmering with the brilliance of white diamonds. Birds chattered in the trees while the wind danced around us, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. The sky continued a fluid transformation from white clouds to blue sky to black storm clouds and back again.
It was a quiet thrill to see tracks from different animals without a single human track. We paused often, as we got closer to the rocky peak, to take pictures and absorb the surrounding beauty. The incline was steeper just before the top, so we paused often to give little Ally breaks. Pausing one last time, with 20 feet to go, we turned and caught an antelope just below us. He had seen us, but wasn't overly scared, trotting by on his way to the next knoll. Antelope out number people in Wyoming, so we see them by the hundreds, daily, feeding alongside roads and in fields. It was still an incredible gift to be sharing his space so closely. Smiling at each other we started to walk again when my oldest motioned us to stop. Another antelope came skirting around just below us. We watched the doe bound off toward the same knoll and started back up.
Reaching the top, we looked around in awe, 360 degrees of unhindered beauty. To the north wind generators lined a ridge like tiny soldiers. Mountains covered the other three directions with valleys, fields and rolling hills blending, shifting and shaping to form patterns not discernable from the road. The wind was whipping around like a two year old toddler, pulling at clothes and hair, yanking trees and moving clouds. It wasn't terribly cold and kept the mosquitoes away so we were patient and welcomed the wind. The views were indescribable and could never be experienced by simply going through the motions.
I gazed and absorbed every moment. Happily snapping pictures, I knew as monumental as this felt, in time my memory would fade as would the beauty and exhilaration of the moment. Years from now, these frozen images would spark a mental journey, reminding me of the decision to climb a mountain.
In no hurry to leave, we looked around, pointing out pretty views and shifting clouds. Glancing again to the north I saw two elk appear just over the top of a lower hill. The wind was cooperating, so our scent wouldn't reach them as they meandered toward us. With no schedule to adhere to, we chose to sit between the rocks and sagebrush watching to see how close the elk would get. They meandered, stopping occassionally to feed on the lush grass. Once in a while they would glance over at the antelope still lingering close by. Clouds drifted, sunlight snuck through, wind pushed at the wildflowers and grass making them bob and sway, the smell of sage tickled our senses, animals moved around us and our hearts were grateful.
Sitting quietly I heard my oldest whispering urgently to me. Turning, he and my husband were motioning for me to get up. Moving quickly and quietly, to where they were, I heard a soft bleat over the wind. To the south, lower on the point, a tiny antelope fawn was creeping between rocks, looking for it's mom. Dropping the few inches to the ground it nestled down near some sagebrush and effectively disappeared. This explained the antelope doe staying close. Reveling in the joy of seeing something so sweet, I crept back to watch the elk.
Moments later the boys were again whispering to me. Sneaking back, they pointed to the ravine on the east side. Ponds twinkled in the afternoon sun between pines, aspens and scrub oak. My eyes searched and finally caught what they were pointing out. Grazing slowly by the ponds was a moose. The elk were moving slowly below us to the west, getting ready to bed down, and the doe antelope waited patiently nearby to be re-united with here little one. Marveling in the experience, we decided it was time to head back down and let the animals have their mountain back.
Driving back to the campsite I reflected on what we had seen. Had we simply stayed on the road, going through the motions and viewing everything through the window we would have missed all of those incredible moments.
The memory made me smile even as my muscles were feeling the pace in the final few miles. Clouds drifted in and out, spitting rain on me periodically. The strawberry moon peaked through a few times and I smiled, thankful for the moments. Racing down the last hill and into the final stretch, I finished and turned off my watch. Lungs laboring, hands on my hips, and my music off, I looked around absorbing the moment.
I would no longer be comfortable going through the motions, living life through the window and coasting on cruise control. I vowed, to the strawberry moon and myself, I would be present in the moment and always choose to climb the mountain.
