Posted by Elizabeth

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, then I am certifiably crazy.

I look genuinely happy at the end, don't I?

Although I’m not an outdoorsy person by nature, for the past few years I’ve been on a quest to transform myself into a hiker extraordinaire.  This hasn’t been a half-hearted quest:  last year I completed two epic hikes, totaling 86 miles over 10 days and two continents.  I enjoyed these hikes.  At certain times, like when I bellowed down the valley that cradled Glacier Grey in Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park, without a soul around for miles to hear, I even loved these hikes.  But when I was actually doing the work of putting one foot in front of the other for 86 miles?  I hated nearly every torturous step.  Anyone who’s been hiking with me for any great distance or incline knows that I complain incessantly.  My legs hurt, I’m thirsty, I’m hot, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and did I mention that my legs hurt?  I loudly huff and puff, dramatically propping myself against a giant tree, forearm draped against my brow, while contorting my face in pain.  By all accounts I am miserable. And yet, the odds are good that I’m the one who suggested the day’s hike.

The question, then, is why? If I hate hiking so much, why do I keep doing it?  WHY is it so important for me to be this version of myself?  This was the question I kept asking myself last Sunday as I heaved myself 4,000 vertical feet up the side of a mountain, completing the nine-mile La Luz Trail in Albuquerque’s Sandia Mountains.  First, there’s the obvious answer:  Maikael loves hiking, and I think it would be nice to have an activity that we could both enjoy doing together.  Unlike me, he scarcely breaks a sweat as he takes long strides up the trail; as a descendant of the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico, a famous tribe of runners, he hails from a superior gene pool, at least where hiking is concerned.  But there are plenty of activities he enjoys that I don’t feel compelled to participate in, like reading the Real Estate section of The New York Times, watching mindless action movies, playing video games, and running.  So why is hiking different?

The main reason is that I think I should want to like hiking.  I think it will be good for me.  In my mind, I imagine hiking deep into the woods, where the cool breeze will play on my neck as birdsong floats through the lush canopy overhead.  Being one with nature will allow me to access some place of calm and tranquility that I can only dream about in my city-bound life.  And then my quivering legs shake me from the dream, the day’s hike ultimately causing more stress and angst than if I would have simply stayed at home.  Last Sunday I could be heard muttering to myself, like the insane person I am, “Should have just slept in and went to breakfast.  Could be reading the paper right now.”

The crazy thing is that I truly expect each hike to be better, or at least different, than the last.  This will be the time my legs don’t hurt as much.  This will be the time I don’t swear like a sailor when I see the trail ahead jut precipitously skyward.  This will be the time that I finally come to understand the joys of hiking.  And when it turns out to be the same old set of miseries, I am genuinely surprised.  So I ask once again, why do I do it?

Even though I can’t fully enjoy it, I believe deeply in the philosophy behind not just looking at nature but experiencing it.  There is something beautifully noble and symbolic about putting one foot in front of the other, mile after mile, with no objective other than to reach the end.  I can’t help but that think there is a powerful lesson contained in this act of walking, some personal answer to the universe yet to be unlocked as my feet slap the ground.  If I just keep at it, if I just keep doing it, if I just push through the answer will be mine. Perhaps, like yoga, the lesson is in the doing. The only way to climb a mountain is one step at a time.  The longer you pause to rest, the longer it takes to reach the top.  Shortcuts save time, but not effort.  You sweat and you curse and sometimes you cry (at least I do), but at the end of the day you did it.  You climbed a mountain.

My favorite part about hiking in the Sandias is the restaurant at the top.  There is no better meal than the one you’ve just grunted your way to.  You feel a deep sense of satisfaction as you tuck into your burger, a detritus of roasted green chile falling to the plate as the diners around you look curiously at your mattered hair, your filthy socks.  And when you’re done, you hop on the tram that carries you to your car, peering down at the trails you’ve just traversed, sashaying down the mountainside.  You hold a ticket in your hand that says, “One Way Down,” and a tourist standing next to you, glancing over your shoulder, notices the ticket and inevitably asks, “How did you get up, then?”  “I climbed,” you say.  “All the way up the mountain.  One step at a time.”

What task do you engage in with the hope of learning some valuable lesson, even if you don’t always love it?  Is it easy or difficult for you to put one foot in front of the other to complete a monumental task?  Do you see the value in climbing a mountain?  What symbolic mountains in your life are you trying to climb?

On that note, PBS is airing a phenomenal miniseries by Ken Burns, The National Parks: America’s Best Idea, exploring the beauty and grandeur of our nation’s parks system.  It started Sunday night and continues through Saturday.  Check your local listings.