Baby steps

First backpacking trip after the surgery meant more than the usual amount of pre-trip anxiety. Jan gave me a pep-talk over the phone. Her last words: “Turn around if it doesn’t feel right.”

I almost didn’t go. It rained all morning and I just laid in bed, worrying. I am only four weeks and 3 days post-op. Is backpacking this soon foolish?

Then, something clicked in my brain and I leapt out of bed, grabbed my pack and started driving.

There I was at the empty trailhead, ominous clouds and snow flurries. Weighing my pack one last time (12 lbs total). Starting down the trail. Baby steps.

Was it still feeling right? No pain like I’d been fearing, but instead the solid, familiar feeling of my backpack against my back. Comforting. Like all is right with the world and nothing bad could ever happen.

Thank goodness the trail really was flat like I remembered.

Up ahead, blue sky. Maybe things would work out as predicted. (The forecast had said 0% chance of rain. Wind 10 mph becoming calm. Lows in the upper teens.)

I set up my tent in the lee of a rock outcrop, between massive, gnarled pinyons. A bit of a walk from the sunset view but more sheltered.

Without my pack, I skip along the slickrock, watching the sky, comparing the views from different angles. What did the doctor say about rock scrambling again? What about leaping from boulder to boulder?

I loose myself in the sky, become one with the rocks. Forget to be nervous.

Ravens swooping, dancing in the wind.

 I don’t know if its because I’m giddy from the excitement of finally being able to backpack after feeling so awful. Or because there is some magic happening with the snow-clouds and the light. But this is the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.

(Even though you all know I say that about every sunset.)
 
 It is incredible to be out here, feeling like there is no where in the entire world I’d rather be. Knowing that I can’t ever, will never take this for granted. The ability to strap on my pack and feel it pressing against my back with everything I need.
Peaceful and expansive. I ignore the biting wind that starts to pick up as the sun dips below the horizon.

By the time the colors fade to deep blue, the wind is battering me about. I make my way back to my camp, leaning into the wind to steady myself. My tent is topsy-turvy, in the arms of the tree.

I struggle to upright my tent, pound stakes into shallow sand, re-wrap guy-lines around larger rocks, pile more rocks on tent stakes, and roll more rocks down the hill to attach to more guy-lines. All with fingers frozen from the cold. All while fighting to keep the tent from blowing away. Then I panic and realize that I’m not suppose to lift stuff, then remember, no as of three days ago, I can lift stuff but what about big boulders? I palpate my groin to see if my intestines are all in place or if they have planned another escape.

Next, I dive into the tent, throw the sleeping bag over me. The roar of the wind shakes the tent violently and I wait to see if my rocks and rope will hold. Until I feel heat getting trapped by the bag, and the panic subsides, and I laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This is NOT the easy, gentle trip I’d envisioned. So much for baby-steps. But at least it’s not raining, I think. Yep, it could always be worse.

Spoonfuls of peanutbutter are my “hiker-midnight” snack. (i.e. 9 PM) Hopefully that’ll jumpstart my metabolism to keep me warm through the night. I’ve got my down booties, 10-degree WM bag, down coat and down hat. Should be OK.

A sound. Not wind. Not animal. Headlampt on, I unzip the tent. SNOW. How can it be sticking to the tent with all this wind? But there it is. So much for 0% chance percip. WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING OUT HERE! I could be at home in a warm bed, but instead, I don’t know what will happen, if I will be OK. If the forecast is that wrong, how much snow will we get? Will I be stuck?

I consider packing up and hiking the 2-miles out to my car but then I remember I don’t have a raincoat or even my ten essentials (except headlamp). That all got ditched to reduce my pack weight. Because my biggest fear is re-injury. I figured my emergency gear being in my car, two-miles away, was close enough. This is what’s called going “stupid-light.”

(Not to mention I'm scared of driving in the snow. Not to mention that I haven't walked 4 miles with a pack since the surgery and that would definitely not be considered baby-steps).

I lay in my bag listening to the wind and the snow. Thinking all the thoughts that one does. Popping my head out of the tent to see the clouds parting to reveal a starry sky. Flooded with relief that it’s not a blizzard, just passing flurries. More wind drives the snow off my tent and away. The sky is awash with stars and the air smells sharp and delicious.

I am so utterly happy.

More information

Backcountry camping permits are required for Island in the Sky in Canyonlands National Park. Pack out all your trash, toilet paper, and use a wag-bag for your poop. Walk and camp on slickrock or in washes, avoiding fragile biological soil crust.

Always check the weather forecast (but never trust it) and always carry the 10 essentials (don't be stupid).

Recovering

S. has taken off work and driven up to help me through my hernia repair surgery and the first few days of recovery.

At the hospital after they have put in my IV and after all the nurses leave and we are waiting, I say to S. in a quivering voice “I’m scared of dying.” My voice has an intensity that I’ve never known.

“But you’ll be dead and won’t even know,” she replies, “What exactly are you scared about?”

 I admire S. because she genuinely is not scared of dying.

“I still need to finish hiking the PCT,” I say earnestly, “I don’t want to die yet.”

I can feel the fear rising up in my throat and S. must see it on my face because she pulls out her iphone and opens up Gaia GPS and starts asking me questions about map layers and topo maps and trails. It calms me down and I can feel the hope creep back into my heart. And then they come in and wheel me into surgery.

***
I wake up with a giant wound in my core. I am completely helpless the first few days. I sleep more than I am awake. The surgeon told me there would be a lot of pain but I couldn't have imagined this. Like a mountain lion ripped out my insides.

Getting out of bed to go to the bathroom is a major endevor and I can barely manage it. My brain is a fog from the anasesia and then the pain killers. I hate not feeling like myself so I try to come off them too early and my body reels from the pain, shaking.

S. brings me ice packs and food to take with the pain meds, waking up at at midnight and again at 4 AM.  Then all day she is making food, bringing more ice, making reassuring sounds to calm my fears.

S.

It feels strange to be so vulnerable and completely dependent. But also strangely comforting to be completely taken care of too. I know there is some deep life lesson here. One that I think might change me, if I pay attention and don’t allow myself to forget.

***
After four days of not leaving the house, S. gently reminds me that the surgeon says I need to walk. So I ask if we can go watch the sunset at the park. Getting out of bed still requires a huge struggle. Once I am finally upright I look down at my feet and they are so far away. My leg hovers a few inches above the ground but I can’t will it up any further.  “S. can you put on my socks for me?” I whimper.

Up at the overlook, I take slow, unsteady steps on the pavement in the parking area while S. walks across the slickrock. Then I have to go back to rest in the truck and watch the the pink sunset glowing on the La Sals through the windshield while tears trickle down my cheek. It is the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen.

 (Even though you probably think I say that about every sunset.)

***
My supervisor brings over flowers and I position them in my room across from my bed. I can’t manage enough brainpower to watch a movie so when I am awake I stare at the red-orange blossoms and broad green leaves. Keeping my heavy eyelids open is difficult. Like postholing in deep snow with a backpack going uphill difficult.


After living such an active life, it is mind-boggling to not even be able to even put on pants and socks, or to walk the few steps from bed to bathroom without major effort. I am reminded of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Waking up to find you’ve been transformed into a body that is not your own. Only this is my body. I'm stuck with it and must learn basic movements all over again.

***
I finally attempt an excursions down the street. My legs wobble as I weave down the driveway. I clutch the incision. My gait is tentative, my legs don’t respond properly, I feel like I may topple over. Finally at the junction of the driveway and the sidewalk, I pause to rest, before turning up the street. Each step is a major endevour. I make it to the next-door neighbors driveway, then the next house.

The epic adventure of the sidewalk.

 I turn around and gaze back to my house and the distance seems impossibly far. Full concentration is required for every single step. Like when you are climbing a mountain and you’ve gone up a several thousand feet of switchbacks but you still have a few more hundred feed of slippery scree left to go. Only this is two houses down, not even two blocks. Using all my willpower, I make it back again up driveway then across the living room and finally collapse back into bed.

***

I think about how glad I am to live in an era of modern medicine, antibiotics, anesthesia, and good surgeons. I try to imagine what it would have been like to get a hernia 100 years ago or a thousand years ago.

I think about how fragile and vulnerable we are as humans. It makes me realize how much I used to believe that if I take good care of my body and exercise that I will have good health. But I know that isn’t true. Things still happen no matter how much we exercise and try our best to be healthy. The surgeon told me repeatedly that there was nothing I could have done to prevent getting this hernia. Nothing except maybe staying on the couch or maybe picking parents better (my dad had one too). This is just part of being alive.

Maybe the most important lesson I am learning is how caring the people around me are. S. driving down here to be with me. My coworkers checking in on me. Friends from across the country sending me cheerful, reassuring messages. Thank you all. It means everything.

Thank you S.

More information

Here is a great informational video about hernias. The video explains how there are different kinds of hernias and also what it's like to have one. (Mine was indirect inguinal). Skip all the WebMD articles they are too scary. This pretty much explains it all.

https://youtu.be/X8Ow1nlafOg
"Living With a Hernia" by "Weird Al" Yankovic

That favorite place

What is your favorite place?

Is yours far-away and exotic? Perhaps where you once went on a fabulous vacation?

Or is your favorite place just up the road? Somewhere you go to all the time, anytime you need to?

My favorite place is a quick drive away (but it feels remote enough).

 It's beautiful (but not so stunning that it makes it into all the guidebooks).

It's got the usual favorite elements-- water, trees, silence. Butterflies, bats, beavers too.

I like it because you can go there to see forever (well... at least all the way to the La Sals), letting the expansiveness wash over you, feeling connected to the bigger picture with distant landmarks on the horizon.

You can also go there and be surrounded by trees and living things and enveloped by comforting, glowing warm redrock.

This is what it looked like last spring

Green bursting forth

Then in early summer, when the green seemed to take over

And the mourning cloak caterpillars loved it too

In this spot, you can pop between the two worlds, from the expansive to the lush, up and down. The two best feelings in the world.

***

A favorite place must be versitile. Last winter, I liked to go here to run around on the rocks.

Continuous rocks like a racecourse

When I started working here, I decided I needed to build my confidence for scrambling on rocks (so that I wouldn’t show any hesitation or fear in front of my students.) So I started coming out each day. “I’m going to go run around on the rocks,” I’d tell my roommate as I headed out the door after work. I’d test myself bounding up steeper and steeper terrain. Seeing the effect of momentum and sheer willpower. Practicing my skills until I could bound like a gazelle.

Other times I've gone here to be still.

I learned that rocks can feel soft and inviting. So another time I even got a permit so I could stay the night.

Sometimes I’d bring my computer out when I needed to write. One time I was sitting and writing at the canyon bottom and wild turkeys walked by and didn’t even see me.

Another time I was perched on top of the rim and a great blue heron flying above traced the arc of the canyon. Not one twinge to reach for the camera. It was just for my eyes only. 

Great blue heron time

There was a week we brought our students out here for field trips.  "Over there a bat was circling just last night," I would point as we played our bat and moth game. "Look at these tracks, I think a beaver was just here, maybe if we are quiet we will see him." And they would gaze expectantly.

Beaver dam, but the water always stayed still

After lunch we would dig in the sand and feel how cool it is beneath the surface.

I hardly ever tell anyone about this place. But for the students, we tell them all to come back here and bring their parents to show them the beaver dam and the places the bats live. "This is a special secret place," we tell them, hoping they will treasure it forever.

***
On a dark, mid-January day, I come back here and run around on the rocks for a while. Then I curl up in my favorite spot in the embrace of the slickrock and cry.

The sun feels so far away

It is two days before I have to get surgery to repair a hernia that I got in my groin. The surgeon says that if I don't get it patched up, then it might strangulate which could be life-threatening if it happened when I am backpacking on a long trip. Plus it's starting to hurt.

The idea of getting surgery makes me scared. I'm scared about how painful it will be. I'm scared of the what-if's. What if I don't wake up. What if something happens and I'm not able to backpack again.

So I lay on the rocks and feel the coolness of the earth supporting me. The La Sals are covered in clouds off in the distance and wonder if I will ever again climb their peaks. I run my fingers along the sleeping branches of a cottonwood, knowing that no matter what happens to me, that this canyon will wake up in a few months, that the leaves will expand, that the caterpillars will hatch from eggs and munch away. And it is comforting to know this place will be here no matter what.

Do cows bluff charge?

Roadwalking the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) up Bonita-Zuni Canyon, north of El Malpais National Monument, NM. The pounding makes me feet ache, and I can’t hike fast enough to get my heart rate up.  There are other trails around with fewer cowpies, rifle shells and beer bottles.  But like a bad crush, I can’t get the CDT out of my mind, and this is the next section north of where I’ve left off.

Roadwalking.

So here I am, on a dusty road.  A raven is dancing above a cow carcus.  Maybe it will get more scenic further on?

Be glad I'm sparing you the photo of the dead cow.

Nope.  Instead, there are cows.  Live cows.  At first, it’s just two.  They stand up and stare.  No, three— the baby wobbles to her feet.  All small mammal cute and fuzzy.  At least I try to pretend it’s cute.  But really I wish they would go away.  Which they do, running off, then turning to stare again. 

Lurking in the trees.

Round the bend, a swarm of cows spread across the valley.  They stand up, and walk parallel to me.  Then one runs towards me.  What if it keeps coming?  Do cows bluff charge?

She ends up veering off at the last minute.  But still stares at me.

I get mad that they make me so nervous with their running at me.  No one is scared of cows.  Cows don’t hurt people.  Its ok to be scared of grizzlies but not cows.  That’s just ridiculous.  I have thousands of miles under my belt, and I’ve faced all sorts of wild creatures of the night.  I keep hiking and pretend I will ignore the cows. 

Around another corner, three cows are running towards me.  Or really not towards me because I don’t even think they see me, but they are stampeding in my direction.  How can something so large move so fast?  This is not fun anymore. 

I’ve had enough. So what if I only hiked three new CDT miles today?  As much as I try to be logical, having large animals running at me has activated my sympathetic nervous system, and I can feel the norepinephrine mustering the troops and getting my body ready to RUN AWAY.

Which I do.  A fast walk for the three miles back to the parking area.  As I retreat, a term Jan uses comes to mind: cherry picking.  It means picking only the sections of trail that you want do to- for scenic reasons, or whatever.  I’m going to be a proud cherry picker today because it means no more horrible roadwalking among cows.  And no more beer cans!

Ugh!  I want a path lined with flowers, not trash.

Why am I telling you this?  I think it’s important to say: IT IS OK TO TURN AROUND.  Why not go find joy instead?  Walking through fields of cows is not my idea of a joyful experience.

The CDT continues across to the Zuni-Acoma Trail, so I head down that trail.  This is a sweet cherry of a trail for sure!

I spend a few hours flying across the lava. The lava is rough and sharp and it hurts and wares me out.  But also: I see flowers and my feet meet the lava with confidence and I feel agile and strong. 

Beautiful lava along the Zuni-Acoma Trail.

 This is joyful hiking.  Not because it’s easier (it’s actually much harder hiking that makes all the muscles in my legs hurt) but because it is that special thing that makes me feel free.  It is challenging in a way I believe is worthwhile (unlike walking down cow-filled roads, which is the opposite of worthwhile).  Most importantly, this hike that I choose is joyful.

Sunny yellow corydalis- this is why I love to hike.

Ten Steps to Hiking in Grizzly Country

I arrived in northwestern Montana this April thinking I was an experienced solo backpacker.  Because I’d dealt with black bears in “problem areas” like the Smokies and Yosemite, I thought I would easily adjust to hiking solo in grizzly country.  I thought that fears of grizzlies were overblown. 

Trailhead sign in Glaicer NP.

Turned out, it was more complicated than I'd assummed. 

After eight months, I’m certainly no expert.  Learning the best practices for hiking in grizzly country was straitforward: make noise, be constantly alert, take care with food, keep food and food smells away from camp, carry bear spray.  But the mental aspects required significant adjustment.

I found little information about solo hiking around grizzlies.  Signs and guidebooks simply say don’t do it. The vast majority of locals say don’t do it.  "Why?" I kept asking.  "Is it really that much more dangerous than going with a partner?" 

I am not making any recommendations here.  Its best to follow the official advice.  Or avoid Montana.

But here is my story of the ten steps that I took to hike here, alone:

1. Study reports of grizzly attacks.  Realize that the risk of death is low, but maulings happen more frequently.  Statistically, drownings and falls present a more serious danger.  Try (and fail) to identify patterns in the attacks.  Did the victims make obvious errors? Which areas have problem bears and the highest bear concentrations?  Listen to some people say that the Bob is safer because bears are more wild, while others say Glacier because it’s heavily monitored and bears are sort-of habituated.  Realize that bears are unpredictable, that they could be anywhere.  Even experienced hikers taking all the precautions have been attacked. 

2. Practice skills for hiking in grizzly country;
    -  How to make noise especially around blind corners.
    -  How to distinguish black bears and grizzlies, and how to respond to each.  
    -  How to carry bear spray on a belt so it says with you when you take off your pack, and doesn’t fall down a cliff and roll into a freezing cold lake.
    -  How to keep the safety on the bear spray covered so it doesn’t break in your car, and then accidentally fire into a fellow hiker’s face at the trailhead, causing all sorts of pain and leaving you feeling totally mortified and too embarrassed to ever hike with that group again, even though they were probably your best hope to find hiking buddies.

3. Practice wildlife avoidance tactics.  Choose popular trails.  Wait at empty trailheads for other hikers to arrive.   Avoid trails with grizzly signs.  Avoid hiking at dawn and dusk.  Inquire about bear activity at the backcountry ranger office.  Question everyone you pass about what wildlife they’ve seen.  Hike 10 miles to a campsite where you have a permit, only to hear about a grizzly in the area when you arrive, and hike the 10 miles out again so you don’t have to camp there alone.

Do I really want to camp here?

4.  Seek guidance from experienced solo hikers.  Discover that most of the badass female backpackers did not go through Montana alone when they were on the CDT.  Identify two superheros of backpacking and get up enough courage to ask how they went solo.  Listen carefully as they emphasize that mental state is key.   “Know your place on the food chain."  "Accept the risks you are taking."  "It’s complex,” they say. 

What does that even mean?

5. See grizzlies up close with other people.  Walk by a grizzly that you could reach out and touch with your hiking pole.  Camp in a place where a grizzly walks past the tents.  Feel what it is like to know your place on the food chain.

Notice that there is a risk to hiking with other people because you are less cautious, less aware.  Discover that hiking with other people doesn't feel that safe either. Especially when other people run from bears, or do other stupid things.

Two women running from the grizzly bear towards us on the Highline Trail.

Roadside grizzly at Logan Pass, Glacier Nationa Park.  This makes me uncomfortable for a number of reasons.  People think they are at a zoo.

6. Go solo hiking, and experience the discomfort.  Drive yourself crazy shouting and clapping and making noise.   Lie awake at night, startling at the smallest rustling.  Question whether you are cut out for Montana.  Cry at the incredible beauty.  Wish this place could feel like home.

Solo trip to Lincoln Lake.

7. Decide to stay home.  Have a backcountry camping permit and your backpack packed for the weekend, but then read the day’s news reports of a bear mauling and the FWP press release saying that bear activity is on the rise.  Call the backcountry permit office and cancel the reservation.  Try to think of something else to do, but fail to come up with anything to do at 5 AM but hike.  Face the reality that you are a hiker and your heart longs for the woods.  Spend the day lying in bed feeling depressed.

Learn that there is a measurable risk to staying home, to NOT hiking solo.

8. Feel the fear.  Have a solo bear encounter.  Feel the clarity of mind when you know danger is that close and make those smart decisions.  Have everything go well- the bear stands up on two feet to get a good look at you, then you realize it's only a black bear as it runs off.  

Completely realistic likeness of the solo black bear encounter in Glaicer.

 9. Watch Night of the Grizzlies and the next morning hike to one of the sites of the maulings.  Sit at the edge of Trout Lake for an hour in a hail storm by yourself.  Think about death.  Feel what it is like to be completely alive.

Trout Lake-- site of one of the 1967 grizzly attacks that changed attitudes towards bears and led to our modern managment system.

10. Accept the risk of going solo.  Feel the mental shift that has happened.  Measure the risks, find ways to mitigate the risks.  Feel the fear but also the even stronger drive to be out in this beautiful grizzly country.  Value the wildness of this place.  Respect that you are traveling through the home for these endangered creatures.  Realize that you probably shouldn’t even be here, but that having this experience is powerful and is challenging you in ways you had never imagined, certainly would never have asked for.  Be grateful for all of this.

Solo trip to Dawson Pass, near Two Medicine.

Again, I'm not saying I recommend going solo.  But as someone who previously backpacked solo for many years, and as someone who had trouble finding available hiking buddies, this is what I did.  Because I weighted the risk of hiking solo with the risks of staying home.

I hope this will give you some idea of what they mean when they tell you not to hike solo in grizzly country.

If you have questions, please do not hesitate to contact me.  My email address is listed on my "about me" page.

For more information:

Night of the Grizzlies -watch the documentary or read the book

Good article on food protection by Andrew Skurka

Glacier National Park's bear advice and video

Bear biology and research