Oh my god, do I dislike hiking.
I am old, out of shape, and struggle to maintain balance and get up the hill, huffing and puffing and cursing the whole time. I find it incredibly unpleasant, hiking. I like strolling through meadows and fields and flat places and looking at flowers and skies and trees and smelling smells and being a person in the nature as long as there are no mosquitos or biting bugs that will give me an unknown, unseen disease. I love picnicking and sitting in the sun and drinking a glass of rose and eating cheese and lounging and being relaxed on the grass or the beach, falling asleep while reading or dozing at the sky and listening to the waves.
Hiking is work. It’s uphill, it’s exertion, it can be dangerous, and yet you are expected to be as pleased about being there as you are when you are lounging in a meadow on the grass or getting a foot massage. Pacific Northwesterners are pathological about hiking. On dating sites, there’s an endless stream of men and women scaling mountains, hiking their way up to precious, scenic views, grinning like this was the greatest thing in the world and escalators had never been invented.
My boyfriend had gone native. He loved to hike. Before he died in a motorcycle accident, he got bit by the hiking bug again and decided that was how he was going to get his ‘steps’ in— by hiking, not by running, which seemed like a chore. He loved nature and was at ease there. One day I thought, let’s go hiking and asked my friend Sara for a recommendation. She warned that it was medium hard but I didn’t seem to hear her or I ignored it. I was focused on the dog-friendly part, and lack of people part. So we went up there, and started hiking, and I immediately knew I’d made a grand mistake. I was so slow, the first mile was straight uphill and it wasn’t even the hard part. I was out of shape again after hurting my ankle and I didn’t want to complain but as we (I) struggled up the hill, I couldn’t help myself and heard myself grumbling and moaning each moment.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was only probably 20 minutes, we reached a clearing, which was just a point a third of the way up, but for me was far enough. It was a lovely view of city and country, and to the far left, if the weather permitted, Mount Rainier. The dog, a cute mini-Dachshund, frolicked and played, and we cracked open a couple of cans of Stiegl Radler, a grapefruit infused beer, and pulled out a few snacks and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
I was happy right where we were, but he wanted to go to the very top, because he was a completionist. It was early Spring and it was afternoon and we were fighting against the light disappearing. Not knowing how far up it was, the weakness of my muscles became even more apparent with each aching step, I looked at the seeming never-end of switchbacks and I began to get anxiety. I told him I couldn’t make it to the top and I felt so disappointed in myself, worried I had disappointed him. It was just too hard a hike for my first outing and I was embarrassed.
I vowed to try again, and so we hiked a few more times, the next time at a place that was less steep but had an arduous set of rocks and a waterfall and I became hesitant. I am not brave in the physical realm like he was. I take only calculated risks.
I always felt I was disappointing him in my inability to be dexterous and daring, but I just wanted to do it so badly for him, for love. He came along on so many urban adventures with me, that hiking was the least I could do for him.
On the day of the anniversary of his death, I decided to go hiking again, back to the first spot with my friend who told me about it in the first place. It was everything I remembered it to be and better and worse. More beautiful, more aching, more steep, more difficult, more green, more high. As we began our ascent, we passed a tree where I think I had taken a photo of him, happy as hell in the woods. He knew the flowers, the trees, he was one with the Earth. I climbed up slowly, stopping and starting, and I remembered the video he sent me of his dog making his way down the very same path. I could see traces of him as we climbed, imagine the dog leading the charge. The weather was just the way he liked it: 60 degrees and overcast, threatening to mist with rain. He didn’t like the heat and he knew that rain kept the crowds away.
We went back to that cliff and raised a glass of sparkling rose to him, looking out into the horizon, where the sky meets the earth, the mountain hidden by clouds, the noises from the souls still among us ricocheting from below.
I still don’t like hiking. I will continue to do it out of love, and maybe then, I’ll learn to love it, too.