Photo by Kalen Emsley on Unsplash
Perched on the edge of the trail, high above the river, her gaze stretches beyond the flowing water to the patchwork quilt of farm fields and then on to the hills that encircle the valley. Larger mountains stand guard to the North, their snow-capped peaks boasting of their height. The boats zip along, the roar of their engines travel skyward meeting the screeches of the turkey vultures who swoop and dip, searching for food. Having discarded her backpack, she rests upon a rock - solid, supportive - as she pops pieces of trail mix into her mouth, delighting in the combination of the rich chocolate and the salt from the peanuts. She washes it down with water which races to replenish, preparing for the next push. The wind rushes at her, somedays instantly chilling her skin, but today, a welcome sensation. This picture-perfect view is the prize, after a thirty-minute climb which started amid a sea of cows, the smell of manure chasing her up the first incline. The trail continuing up and down like a roller coaster as it paralleled the river, drawing closer to this spot, known as the Hanglider Lookout.
I am the unknown, she is at my mercy. I will be demanding and perhaps even unkind. Though I do not refer to a forty-mile hike, complete with a twenty-pound pack, up inclines thousands of meters high, I trust she is still prepared and her body strong. If her shoes rub against her feet, breaking the skin, she must hope she remembered to pack bandages or she will have to embrace this excursion wrought with discomfort and pain. On every hike I mandate she digs deep in order to survive.
People climb upon me, disguising their exercise, distracted by my wonders: the twittering birds, rushing water, wind whistling in the trees. They huff and puff up one of my hills or focus fiercely on a decline, all other worries and thoughts pushed to the back of their mind. They have made a choice: to get off the couch, step away from the phone and TV to immerse themselves in nature where it doesn’t matter what one looks like, how much money one makes, and where the problems of the world temporarily disappear and adventure awaits.
Some of them fly with ease, dashing down a steep incline, no cares in the world. While others, aware of my deterrents of loose shale and glare ice, slow down and move slowly. She is of the second group. Hesitating, she stands at the top of a steep decline, staring down the hill. I mess with her mind, screaming, “take a step and I will grab your feet from under you and yank you down this hill”. After seconds of tossing between her only two options – continue or stay on the mountain forever – she takes a step forward. Doubting her concerns have disappeared, I am filled with pride - she has chosen survival, ignoring the menacing words I shouted into her ear.
On the flip side are the steep inclines which she eagerly embraces even when her heart must be beating rapidly and her lungs about to burst, because she knows that her legs are strong enough to haul her up the hill, confident in her cardio training. She calls on tanks full of will power, which will aide in pushing through the physical discomfort, presumably because she desperately craves the accomplishment that I offer upon reaching the top. This achievement is measurable, it is permanent. Every time she drives through the farm fields or snakes her way around the mountains on the interstate, memories of the bitter hops of her celebratory beer come to mind, the smell of victory heavy in the air as her success spreads out before her eyes.
Some hikes she runs into other people, while some days, especially on lesser known trails, she never meets another soul. But she is never alone, I as well as the animals being nearby, even if invisible to her. It is often within these quiet moments, as she meanders along the trail, gazing upon the bold red leaves of fall or the uniquely individual branches fully exposed in winter, that I see her reconnect to nature and possibly her inner self. Her mind slowing as she tunes into the rhythm of her heart, feeling the Earth as each footfall is placed, silently expelling dusty air, replacing it with inhalations of positive thinking.
Even if her hike contains minimal inclines, I still toss challenges her way, the potential to get lost lingering in the wings. Trail less, she must slip on her explorer’s cape and initiate survival protocol, bushwhacking through the uncleared path, keeping anxiety at bay. Trusting that she can re-route herself to the trail or a familiar space by calculating which way to turn based on the position of the sun. Triumphant once again, but not before I throw a stream in her path, forcing her to complete the unforeseen task of crossing it balancing on a fallen log.
One of her recent hikes began with a subtle incline, the path winding through the woods until it eventually ended high upon a cliff, running smack into the river, far below. Peering down at the water, though not nearly as high as the Hanglider Lookout, she must recall staring up this exact cliff from the sundeck of her boat as it cruised by last summer. I assume that the shift in perspective must fascinate her as she lords over the water from her high vantage point. A train whistle blows, alerting her to other’s ability to move forward while her path has ended, unable to go further. The only reasonable route is to retrace her steps and she turns, heading back through the woods towards the car, sidestepping poison ivy and crossing her fingers against a tick invasion.
Clomping along, scanning her surroundings, she stops to gaze on a misshapen log that juts from the end of a fallen tree, oddly out of place. The “log” quivers then the “log” shakes. Rumbling, it grows taller, its hair glistening in the sun, as a large paddle like appendage extends outward. I see her face scrunched up in concentration as she computes these observations, deducing that this log is in fact a beaver. A smile bursts upon her face, excited at her discovery, possibly never having seen one in nature.
The beaver, startled by her presence, immediately takes refuge in the water, slapping his tail fiercely, shooting ripples out into the water around him as he swims away from her. He zips this way and that way, speeding through the water as she continues on the path, keeping him in her sights. Minutes later he slows, as a second beaver approaches him. They slap their tails lightly, as though in greeting, and then swim away single file, as though on a roadway.
In the middle of all this excitement, leaves and branches crunch up ahead. Dragging my attention from her, I spot four deer dashing through the woods, heading towards the road. I hear her inhale sharply as they step onto the pavement. I silently urge them to move faster before a car comes speeding around the corner. Only when the hoof of the last deer hits the woods on the other side, does she exhale and we gratefully watch their white cotton ball tails grow smaller and smaller.
I stare at her as she sits in her car writing in her journal, tucking this experience away, to pull from her arsenal if she ever waffles between taking a hike or remaining indoors. I know that special occasions, such as these, are why hiking is the better choice: the adventure, filled with magic. I imagine that even on more mundane hikes, as she returns to the car, she is filled with a greater sense of accomplishment than ever obtained on a jog. With my sprinkling of amazing views and her après beers, it is an easy choice. On top of it all, hiking renews her soul, either by the simple return to basics or because of my challenges which force her to look within, and once again, tackle my terrifying descents, in order to survive. These facts always pushing her to reach for her boots rather than the remote control and a handful of chips.
Sarah Fairbanks is a bookkeeper by day and a writer by night. Sarah is driven by her desire to explore, stemming from her days growing up overseas as well as various US states. Sarah has been published in Ink & Sword, Halcyon Days and Thieving Magpie.
