Training Day

It’s raining sideways this morning as I make my way to the Spencer’s Butte trailhead.  On the way down Amazon Parkway, I see runners along the sawdust path, even in this abominable weather.  As I pass a group of three, I can see their faces in my rear view mirror, and they turn out to be a family.  There’s a man of about fifty, running with two girls, obviously his daughters by the resemblance, and they look to be about ten and twelve.

            And as they recede in my mirror, I think “this is a fine place.”  And I’m so glad I came here to live.

            The Hideaway Bakery is built in pure Mediterranean style, with dark yellow stucco walls inside, lit by four-paned white-washed windows, set into the deep, hay bale walls.  The ordering area is a narrow alley, while most of the interior is occupied by a huge clay oven.  Embers are barely visible through a crack in the iron door.  The warmth from the oven is a presence, a hug from your grandmother.

            Outside, under the covered patio, I sit with cold hands curled around an Americano, waiting for my breakfast burrito, “with seasoned tofu, not eggs.”  When it comes, it’s remarkable.  The roasted potatoes are crunchy and rich with spices, and the tofu is chewy and tangy with a scrumptious white sauce.  And while I wait, there is a very Eugene crowd to entertain and engage me, from the toddler in an Andean knit hat who finds everything and everyone supremely interesting, to the thirtyish man who sits next to me, alone, and mutters to himself in a language that sounds something like Croatian while he reads real estate listings.

            Rain drops tap at my right arm, and the cold pushes in against the creaking space heaters.  Sitting there, sipping Espresso,I almost decide to cancel my training day today, I am so stressed and sleep-deprived.  But I decide my commitment to training wins.  If I want to hike high, windy passes this coming September, I have to pay up.  And the trail is so good, I can’t say no.

            If the afterlife is a dirt path lined with tall trees, I’ll know I’ve gone to heaven.

            I’m in an altered state this morning as I turn toward the insanely steep power line trail and move up under unstable skies.  But my energy increases as I climb.  As it always does, even though my attention is altered by many hard, hard nights.  I pass a whimsical, sprawling oak tree covered in ferns, and climb upward as the skies grow more optimistic.  At the summit, there are views, though they are drenched in the darkness of winter’s last.

            Mostly, the trail is deserted today, but there are a few familiar faces; the older man who hikes with trekking poles, and wears a wide, leather hat.  And the fortyish dark-haired woman who is always with her teenage daughter, the girl so well mannered, and the woman looking like someone I’d like I’d to meet.

            The miles flow by today like water, and I find myself having set a record.  I’ve exceeded two miles an hour on the way up and three miles an hour on the way down.  The winding, rocky, seven thousand foot ridges of Sky Lakes Wilderness whisper old memories to me as I shift my pack into the trunk of the car.  One September long ago, while passing through those rocky ridges alone, there was a crisp, icy morning when for just a moment, I could have sworn that the light in the day was coming from everything, not just the sun.

John Muir, climbing Mt. Ritter

"After scanning its face again and again, I began to scale it, picking my holds with intense caution. About halfway to the top, I was suddenly brought to a dead stop, with arms outspread clinging close to the face of the rock unable to move hand or foot either up or down. My doom appeared fixed. I MUST fall. There would be a moment of bewilderment, and then, a lifeless rumble down the cliff to the glacier below. My mind seemed to fill with a stifling smoke. This terrible eclipse lasted only a moment, when life blazed forth again with preternatural clearness. I seemed suddenly to become possessed of a new sense. My trembling muscles became firm again, every rift and flaw in the rock was seen as through a microscope, my limbs moved with a positiveness and precision with which I seemed to have nothing at all to do."

Training Day

This morning when I step outside the cabin to get my daypack out of the trunk of my car, the wind hits me, cold, cold.  It’s still harsh and wintry out here, and for an instant I hesitate in my plans.  But I’ve decided to hike the butte today.  And this is exactly the kind of day I need for a “training hike.”

            Since recovering from the surgery, I’ve been accumulating new equipment.  Raingear, warmth layers, boots and much more.  I need to work with  them all, in all possible conditions, so that I’ll be comfortable and ready when I’m in the high country, alone.

            I’m excited to go today, happy at the prospect of climbing a hill with a pack on my back.  As I make tea for the thermos, and a sandwhich for the top pocket of the day pack, my mind spins backwards in time.  How long have I been doing this?

            I remember a weekend on a very snowy ridge on the southwest face of Mt. Hood, with a friend.  It was early season, June maybe, and the snow so deep, we only saw glimpses of the trail for two days.  We contoured as best we could, over raging streams of glacial melt water, and dodging rock fall that was positively deadly.  Finally, near dark, we camped in a meadow, on a tiny patch of bare ground.  The Sandy glacier boomed and cracked above us all night.

            What year was that?  I had borrowed my dad’s pickup truck and driven us up there, so I had to be sixteen, maybe seventeen at the most.  That would make the year 1973 or 1974.  ’84, ’94,’04.  Thirty years, and then seven more til 20ll.  Thirty-seven years.  And this windy, icy morning, as I pour tea into the thermos, as I put on double socks, and lace my boots in the same obsessive ritualistic way, as I check and re-check the contents of my day pack, the anticipation of the trail, of having my head in the wind, is exactly as fresh and exhilarating as it was thirty-seven years ago.

            At the trail head, I shoulder my pack and walk away from the car, and in less than fifty steps, I am on the trail, moving up, up under busy, gray skies.  Now the cold does not matter, is not noticed.  Now there is only a path snaking between tall trees.  Only.  The wind has shifted today.  Yesterday, cold arctic air was pouring in from Canada, the wind blowing out of the north.  Today, it’s still windy, still cold, but the wind comes from the south west, and it smells of rain.

            It’s not here yet, but it will be, probably today.  The trees are alive with it, singing and swaying high above me, throwing down clumps of thawing snow, and small branches torn lose from ‘way up on their crowns, a hundred feet above my head.

            There are not many people today, the cold has weeded them out.  The few that are up here tend to be much more friendly than the average fair-day hiker.  Or maybe it’s me. 

            The temperature drops and the snow deepens as I ascend, and at the thousand foot level, it is icy.  Now the trail is a class-four scramble.  As I emerge from the trees on the final, rocky approach to the summit, the hike becomes a study in rock, wind, ice and the constant threat of a nasty fall to my right if I should miss with a foot placement.  All the old habits kick in.  Test every step: is it solid?  Will it slip when I shift my weight up?  Where are the next three steps beyond that one?  Am I working my way into a corner?  Sequence is critical.  A good foothold is no help if it takes you into a blind corner.

            The wind intensifies as I near the summit.  Now it’s loud, booming across the rocks just above my head, and the short, sparse trees lean away from it.  It’s raining just a little, and the rain does not come down, it moves sideways, over my head, coming to ground I don’t know where, maybe in Douglas county somewhere.  This is a holy place, and time.

            As I crest the summit, the wind greets me with a hand on my chest, and stinging drops of cold hard rain in my face.  Far to the south, dark clouds reach down to touch the ground in long streamers.  Here, under my feet there is rock and ice, and they are equally hard.

            I find a notch in the Andesite just below the summit, in the lee of the raging south-wester.  The sandwich I made this morning is heaven, and the thermos of tea is an island of warmth in an ocean of cold.  Ridiculously, there is a patch of sunshine right over downtown Eugene.  Down there, maybe someone is walking past the McDonald Theatre, or the Paradise Café, looking up here and saying, “I’m sure glad I’m not up there today.”

            But I am gladder than I could say.

            On the way down, footing is tricky enough to be a little taxing psychologically.  I am reminded of a hundred descents from lofty heights, in iffy conditions, on shaky knees, testing every step, hoping it holds.  Today is not that bad, but the memories flood in.

            Now I’m past the worst of the ice, and the trail is just muddy.  And suddenly, the wind stops, the trees stand up straight, and it is silent.  Here it comes, I think, and I reach for my rain gear.  Wind comes from changing pressures, and when the pressures are equalized the wind stops.  The bitter Canadian air is washed away, the moist ocean air is here.

            And sure enough, a good old-fashioned Oregon Winter Rain starts pouring down.  I snuggle into my rain gear, my feet splashing along.

            Home.

The Relaxation Response

Most people have heard of the Fight of Flight response, that body reaction we have in stressful times.  Most people know that our modern lives trigger it over and over again, every day, and that it aggravates many of the most medicated and deadly health problems we face today.

Relatively few people know that there is a symmetry in our physical and mental beings that counter-acts this response.  It's possible to "turn off" the fight or flight response, to induce a state which can repair the potential damage, and can even make you less likely to be harmed by stress in the future.

There is a state of mind and body in which blood chemistry changes, metabolic rate decreases, and in fact, every "bad" thing that comes from fight or flight is countered.  The really good news is that it is very, very easy to create and maintain this state.  It's probably the most beneficial thing you can do for your health, right now, with no special equipment and with very little skill.

It also feels good!

• Find a quiet place.  Turn your cell phone OFF.
• Sit with your hands in your lap and bring your attention to your breath and body.
• As you breathe in say "in."
• As you breathe out repeat a phrase to yourself in your head, something positive.
• It can be one word, an inspiring phrase, a line from a song you like.  It doesn't matter.
• When thoughts intrude, notice them and return to your phrase.
• Keep going for ten minutes.

It's so simple you will think you're not doing it, and that it can't be working.  But it does.  This state has been massively studied in the last thirty years.

• Sleep improves.
• People who drink or use drugs use less.
• Anxiety is reduced.
• Blood pressure goes down (all the time, not just when you're doing it).
• People report "feeling better" emotionally and physically.

For many, sitting quietly and repeating the phrase for ten or twenty mintues a day becomes a positive addiction.  Everything seems better when you do it, and the state itself is pleasurable.  In a way it's no surprise that nature would design an equal and opposite reaction to the fight or flight response.  But it is a delightful discovery.  So easy, and fun to do.

Dr. Benson's book has been through many printings, and it's still available.
"The Relaxation Response."

Home

This morniing I wake in my little cabin to the sound of rushing water.  The creek down below is frantic, trying to carry away the rains of the last few days.  From my bed, I can see the forested hillside on the other side of Lorane highway, as always.  This morning, there is mist on the hillside, moving up, clinging to the trees, or so it seems.

This is a vision I’ve seen a thousand times in my life; mist in deep green trees, on steep hillsides.  I make tea, and stand in the doorway of my little place, looking out at the hills, hearing the rushing water.

And suddenly, seamlessly, I have traveled in time.  It’s twenty years ago, and I’m hiking the crest, on any one of a hundred trips through that high country.  It’s September, and I’m camped at the edge of an alpine meadow, right at the treeline.  There are low Jack Pine, and gnarled White Bark Pine here and there, but mostly, the country is open, populated by Bear Grass, Wild Strawberry, Lupine, and Huckleberry.

It’s cold, maybe twenty five degrees.  A shallow layer of mist hangs over the lake.  I am crouched over the tiny flame of a tiny stove, making oatmeal and tea.  My pack is assembled, mostly.  My breakfast done, the tea cup will go in last.  Map in the side pocket, compass in the shirt pocket, the lanyard around my neck for safe-keeping.  The day’s first bearings are taken; for now, I am found.

I walk to the edge of the lake, contemplating this day’s miles, and in a moment, I am consumed with a feeling of freedom that has me fighting back tears.  Shoulder pack, climb the ridge.  Soon, I’m above the ponderous clouds.  Now they are an ocean of white below me.  The sun is bright and cold, hard as diamonds.  Cold, cold wind  on my back, I turn until it’s in my face and start north, along a rocky ridge, high above the treeline.

Home.