Author: Abigail

And for my next trick, I’ll be climbing a mountain in the desert!

Wait, hang on, I’m getting a note here. What’s this? You say we’ve already had one desert mountain? Well, what about second desert mountain?

For better or worse, the fifth highpoint on the list is Black Mesa, a dry and unshaded hike through almost-desert and almost-prairie. It’s a landscape that reminds you aggressively of the far West Texas desert, despite being hundreds of miles away. But we’ll get into that.

Perhaps the most notable part of this trip: I brought friends! After all the time spent bellyaching about doing things alone on Greylock, it seems only fitting that on the next highpointing endeavor, no one would need to go it alone. Two of my best friends in the world agreed to roll out with me on this one, and as always, having them at my back made the sky seem a little bluer and the trail a little shorter after all. Thanks for coming, y’all.

That said, let’s hop in to covering the trip itself.

What’s Black Mesa?

Black Mesa is a miles-long plateau that extends through Colorado, New Mexico, and Oklahoma’s panhandle. The Oklahoma portion of the mesa includes the tallest point in the state of Oklahoma at 4,973 feet above sea level, beating several aspiring peaks in the Wichita Mountains in the southeastern part of the state.

Fun fact: The name comes from the volcanic rock spread over the area, like frosting on a sandstone cake. Dark, delicious igneous rock. Yum.

The highpoint trail itself is an 8.8 miles there-and-back route—with the funniest incline I’ve ever seen on a trail map. The 748 ft of incline we’d cover was all condensed into about half a mile of trail. The rest of the hike? Completely without incline whatsoever. So we’d be walking for a couple miles of completely flat trail, with a sharp incline for about a half mile or so (maybe even less), followed by another couple of miles of flat on top of the mesa itself.

On arrival, the topography matched the map to the letter.

Look at that. It’s all so flat. Except for that one Really Not Flat bit (which is helpfully also, itself, flat on top.) I love geography.

Unbothered, moisturized, in the arachnid lane

We started our hike around 10:00 am, in crisp wind on a bright blue morning. Above us, the mesa loomed—as did several other, equally-imposing looking mesas, all dotted with the same small green bushes. Nothing tall grew here but the rocks themselves.

I looked around from the trailhead, and wondered out loud which of the long, flat plateaus we’d be climbing that day. The trail claimed to be eight miles—surely it couldn’t be the one we’d parked next to? That seemed far too easy. But a confirmation from the map proved our destination the correct mesa, indeed. Nothing for it, then, but to get started.

The first few miles of entirely flat trail passed quickly, punctuated by several wildlife sightings. The dust at our feet held several surprises, for those with quick eyes (and hands, if you’re my one snake-loving friend). We saw a tarantula ambling along, unbothered and in it’s lane—although probably not moisturized, given the climate.

Shortly after, we nearly stepped on a young male Eastern hognose! One of the day’s finest sightings. One or more members of the party may have been moved to tears by this event. I can neither confirm nor deny, simply affirm that snakes are indeed, great.

Granola and M&Ms under the big blue

After a few calm miles of dusty, flat, and rock-strewn terrain, the trail turned upwards towards the only real incline we’d encounter on this highpoint trail. A wide rocky track wound sharply upwards in a couple of firm switchbacks that would take the air out of your lungs real quickly if you took them at a challenging pace.

But on that clear morning, we weren’t in a hurry. We took the incline slowly, picking our way up the lonely trail and resting at the mile marker bench. It seemed a shame to rush things, with the wide prairie starting to spread out below us as we climbed, and miles of undeveloped land stretching out in every direction, as far as the eye could see.

Part of me wanted to hustle—I had put my Fitbit on that morning hoping to get a good cardio workout on the books that day—but by the time we got to the third mile bench, I’d accepted the new pace. I have so many opportunities to go fast, and so few to do things with people who mean something to me. Why not match their pace? The point is the people, not the Thing Abigail Wants to Do Right That Moment Or She’ll Die (Probably). 

We sat on and around the bench, eating granola and M&Ms under a devastatingly blue sky. It was good.

From the third mile bench, we ambled upwards, boots against white rock. Most of the 700 feet or so of elevation gain were behind us now, and we could turn near the top and look almost all the way straight down to the path we’d taken to get there.

A last scramble, and that was it—we broke out onto the long, flat surface of the mesa, with nothing but dry waving grass for miles in every direction but down.

It’s a summit, we swear!

Oklahoma’s highpoint is somewhat misleading. At least in the sense that there’s not really a summit, so much as a long, evenly flat section of land on the mesa that is technically higher than all other sections of land, and has had an obelisk placed on it in an arbitrary location. At least, it seems arbitrary, to the naked eye.

My highpoint photo makes me laugh.

It’s a picture that really downplays the achievement. The mesa looks absolutely devoid of topography in any direction, and you’d never guess there was a trail, let alone one with any elevation gain. It’s just flat as far as the eye can see.

But, I promise, we did a climb! It was a rigorous 700 feet of elevation gain, even.

That said, if you need the feeling of having accomplished something, you can follow the trail all the way to the turnaround point at the end of the mesa, where you can look down over the wide prairie and survey your work. We looked out over a landscape dotted with cactus and juniper, waving grass and shrub oak, and felt the wind whip our faces in a highly satisfactory manner. Mission accomplished!

The obelisk marking the summit of Black Mesa shows the distance from the highpoint to each of the four closest states—Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, and Kansas. (Turns out that Cimarron County, OK is the only county in the U.S.A to touch 4 different states.) New Mexico is just a quarter mile away, from that point.

You can also sit on the concrete next to the obelisk, and write your name in the high pointer’s book, with a short message about your hike (and the snakes you saw along the way).

Grasshoppers of unusual size

With our purpose fulfilled, we began our route back down the trail, following the top of the mesa back to the more vertical parts of the route. The sun beat down, now hot despite the wind, and I adjusted my jacket even higher on my backpack to cover my neck from the rays. (This would later prove to have been highly ineffectual, in the sunburn department).

We trailed along, a little slower than we’d come, taking our time and making commentary on the egregious size of the local grasshoppers.

Ambling along the long, flat top of the mesa, I thought about the first of these highpoints I did, Texas. Being out here under the flat sky stretching from horizon to horizon, dust and rock under my boots—it reminds me a lot of that trip last year. We’re hundreds of miles from West Texas, but the desert is a big place. Even if this is a little more prairie and a little less cactus.

Just as we were about to hit the decline again—we saw her. A beautiful lone pronghorn antelope trailed along parallel to us, belly-deep in the waving grass. We all stopped to stare at her, and the phones came out to grab pictures.

There she goes. Fastest hoofed animal in North America.

I held my breath, not bothering to even grab at my own phone, as she bounded into the distance as fast as she came. Seeing an animal in the zoo in the Texas exhibit is one thing. Seeing it live and wild in the home of its birth is something else entirely.

She disappeared into the brush on the other side of the mesa… We waited about 0.5 seconds before bursting into a chorus of, “Holy SHIT, dude.” Snakes, tarantulas, and an antelope? The shortgrass prairie crawled with life!

Time flies when you’re hiking with buds

Once we got to the descent, the rest of the trail flew by in quick conversation about what to eat that evening, and commentary about the length of the trail. By the time we’d made it halfway down, we’d picked out a Cajun place in Amarillo, with an absinthe selection that would put several reputable establishments in Austin to shame. This included reading the menu out, line item by line item, so everyone could have ample time to pick out their selections. 

Even as the sun rose and tilted in the sky, and we put miles behind us slowly but surely—it didn’t feel like long at all before we came up on the car again.

That’s half the fun of doing things with friends. You can’t beat good company for a good time.

So, that’s Black Mesa. Not the hardest highpoint, not the easiest, but lovely all the same. Eight miles and some change in a wide October, under a big prairie sky.

Five down, forty-five to go!

Welcome back to the highpointing saga! Today, we’re headed back to the south—to the green hills and rolling valleys of the Ozarks, no less. Highpoint number four is that fabled emerald peak (or more of a gentle rise): Mount Magazine! No more east coast business. For now.

Important disclaimer: today’s installment is brought to you by a family vacation co-opted into a highpointing venture. My dad has never said no to a reason to get outside and do something silly or reckless in his entire life. And if a kid suggests it—even, and perhaps especially, an adult kid—the likelihood of said silly business becoming an important item on the to-do list increases exponentially.   

So, let’s talk about Mount Magazine.

What is Mount Magazine?

The highest natural point in the state of Arkansas is Mount Magazine in the lovely Ozark-St. Francis National Forest. At 2,753 feet, Mount Magazine stands above the surrounding valleys like, well. An ammunition magazine, if the French soldiers who saw the plateau and titled it as such are to be believed. This mountain is well-known for being the best spot in the state for technical rock climbing, and one of only two places you can go hang gliding. (Neither of which were on our lists for this trip, lamentably or otherwise.)

While there are several lovely scenic trails around the mountain, the one that leads to the highpoint is fairly short. Unlike many of the longer hikes on our list, it takes only 0.45 miles from the parking lot to reach the top on Signal Hill Trail. Completing the loop brings you to a whopping 1.4 miles on a smooth, mostly flat trail, surrounded by trees the entire time.

Let’s get rolling

Arriving at Mount Magazine involved some slightly unorthodox travel machinations. First, we agreed to make this hike the capstone of a week-long family vacation in Hot Springs, so I drove out to Arkansas nearly a week prior to completing the hike. That drive took nearly eight hours, a straight shot from Austin—wherein I discovered that yes, driving through East Texas still turns me back into an absolutely feral country girl.

The stereo saw a lot of early 2010’s pop country, and I’m not proud of that.

Once in Arkansas, we spent several days lounging lakeside and kayaking Lake Hamilton, before packing up for the final two-hour drive to Mount Magazine. That drive was unexpected challenging—not because of the roads, or the weather, but because I learned that I get carsick when I’m not the one driving on those tiny back roads with lots of twists and turns. NEWS TO ME.

We took AR-10 W to AR-309, but I fully admit I was not paying attention. 

Through the fish tank we go

Finally, we hopped out of the Suffering Bus at the campground, at the start of Signal Hill Trail. It would be short jaunt to the highpoint, and the park staff had advised that the more scenic areas were best found by the lodge, slightly further down the mountain. As such, we planned to split our hike into two parts. First, the highpoint, to achieve Tallest People in the State status, even if only for a glimmering moment, and then second, to a shorter trail along the ridge with the views. With this determined, we set out on Signal Hill Trail with the whole posse of family in tow.

The greenery in the woods we entered immediately lapped up around our ankles thick and wet, the air humid as an aquarium. It doesn’t surprise me that 94 of Arkansas’ native butterfly species can be found on this mountain, with this weather remarkably similar to a greenhouse or botanic garden. While it was only maybe 80 degrees out, the humidity made us all substantially warmer. And stickier.

We followed a winding trail up a smooth slope with only a small incline. The dirt trail wound through the trees, climbing upward at a steady but not challenging pace. The largest obstacle we encountered was a pipe sticking up out of the ground in the center of the trail at one point, which tripped at least one unfortunate member of our adventuring party.

Summit on Mount Magazine: trees

We reached the summit within about 20 minutes, including accounting for time taking a wrong turn and stopping to smell the flowers! Extremely efficient, this highpoint.

The top of Signal Hill proper is perhaps the least visually notable peak on my list so far. The whole thing is covered in trees, and so breaking out onto the flat top of the hill is really just entering a small clearing in a swathe of trees, with the Highpoint Monument and a big sign declaring your victory.

The Highpoint Monument, a flat concrete construction on the ground in the center of the clearing, shows the 6 natural divisions of Arkansas. If you are possessed of too much imagination, you can stand on the Ozark Plateau region like some sort of ridge-backed god, and tower over all the remaining representations of the state with a prickly, humid sort of authority for a moment.

After a brief interlude to climb the sign, sign the summit register, and take the requisite number of increasingly goofy pictures, we proceeded to part two of our Mount Magazine quest.

Man, those mountains sure are blue ridged

A short drive from one parking lot to another took us to the lodge, a popular local tourist destination—and for good reason. This is where the views were hiding! The lodge, built on the mountainside, overlooks the Petit Jean River Valley and Blue Mountain Lake. From the balcony at the back, you can look out over an emerald valley punctuated with a sapphire river leading into an equally-sapphire lake. Here in late spring, the colors of that view sprang out with verdant intensity.

Off in the distance, a low line of blue mountains wrote the horizon line.

It may not have been the highpoint of Mount Magazine, but I think several of us felt that view was the high point of the trip. We hung out at the lodge for a few hours, ate lunch, and took another short hike along the mountain’s edge, following that view. Bear Hollow Trail prioritizes the aesthetics of the hiking experience—boasting at least a quarter mile of trail with valley views before dipping down into the closed greenery of the inner trails again.

After about an hour or so of sticky hiking, we called ourselves successful, took one more peek at the vistas, and packed ourselves up for the cabin again.

Country roads, take me home

We hit the road for the drive back to our cabin with a couple hours of daylight to spare. Chatter in the car skewed very strongly towards kayaking on the lake later that evening—and it struck me how very different this trip was from the last. My last highpoint, Greylock, I reached without speaking to hardly another human soul on the day of the hike. This one, I’ve been listening to backseat banter about swimming and fictional wizards—juxtaposed against a backdrop of adult conversation about Boethius and classical education—for the better part of the day before ever arriving at the hike.

In the backseat on the return journey, I tuned out the noise and watched the scenery pass out the window, feeling again about ten years old. It’s funny how that feeling sticks around. My dad driving, the chatter swelling up and around, and I felt, almost comfortingly, like just another bee in the familial hive again—however briefly. (The very antithesis of Appalachian solitude, really.)

Slightly nauseated backseat reflections

Perhaps I should think of Mount Magazine as an underwhelming installment on a 50-stop journey with bigger and badder trails on it. And in many senses, it is. But there are 50 whole high points on this arbitrary list I’ve assigned myself to accomplish—and that’s a lot of trips. A lot of opportunities to go places and do hikes of varying magnitude, with varying groups of people; from large family outings to all by my lonesome. (There’s range, dahling.)

Each has value of a different sort. Every person I take on one of these trips brings something very different to the table—and some handle the gift that is being included well, and some don’t. My parents and the slew of kids they still have at home treated the opportunity to come with me as a gift. Something we got to share both experiencing and facilitating, and take joy in all of the above equally.

And for that, I am grateful. My life is so different than theirs, that being able to share things with them is a gift I don’t often get, either.

So, no, it’s not thousands of feet up in the air, and no I didn’t risk life and limb to accomplish some physically strenuous monstrosity of a goal that will sit forever in the locked China cabinet of the mind. But I did get to share a part of my life with my parents. And while that’s not a goal I specifically had when I began this project, it’s one I’m delighted to have discovered and will continue to cultivate.

At the end of this project, maybe I’ll have collected 50 different types of experiences, shared with people as varied as the terrain we travel together. Each one unique, each one valuable.

Four down, forty-six to go.

Well, this is unexpected. Texas first for the Texas resident, sure. Louisiana, a natural progression therefrom.

Massachusetts. Excuse me? One of these things is not like the others.

There’s no grand explanation, other than that there are many benefits to having a corporate day job based on the East Coast. (Many benefits.) I flew out to Boston for work for half the week in late March, and staying an extra few days to knock out the third on the list seemed a reasonable, providential endeavor.

After all, why shouldn’t I? That has been the practice of my last year, after all. To conceive in my heart a desire, and then simply stretch out my hand and take it, letting the wanting be reason enough. So, I did.

A brief primer on Mount Greylock

Located on Mount Greylock State Reservation, Mount Greylock is the highest point in Massachusetts. At 3,491 feet, it’s a reasonably-sized peak for the area, but on the shorter side of the list when it comes to the full 50. During the summer, you can just drive to the top—but I would be going in March, when the roads would still be impassable. (Skiing is popular in the winter in the Berkshires, which surprised my very Southern sensibilities. There’s snow up on them there hills?)

Now, despite the road closures, hiking remains an option all year round. Great! There’s just one catch—you’ll need spikes, or snowshoes. And the best trail for making the summit, Bellows Pipe Trail, is 6.5 miles and considered “a challenging route”.

Nice.

Navigating the logistics? Hard. Climbing tall stuff? Easy.

I spend a couple paragraphs every time I do one of these trip recaps talking about the logistics of arriving, lodging, transportation, company, and related sundries. It’s much less exciting than, “Hey look, here’s me on a tall thing,” which begs the question of why include it at all.

The answer is that I want to acknowledge what has, historically, been the hardest part of these things for me: Getting there. Talking someone into going with me, affording plane tickets, driving a car that won’t run out of battery in the middle of nowhere, having a work schedule that allows travel in the first place—those are the difficult parts. Climbing tall stuff? Easy.

That said, I’ve gotten a lot better at solo travel in the last year. From the conception of the desire to do so, to the planning (which invariably expresses itself as, “Haha wouldn’t it be funny if I just left the country for a week? Haha, wouldn’t that be a great joke? Haha, I’m buying plane tickets…”), to the execution. I can just do stuff I want to do, without waiting for anyone’s permission. And that’s cool as hell.

Hozier’s latest EP and a spirit of recklessness

For Greylock, I was already in Boston for work, and the entirety of the hiking portion of this trip involved renting a car and driving three hours to a private mountain Airbnb. In a walkable town, no less. Relatively uncomplicated, in the grand scheme of things. The hardest part of that endeavor would be driving out of Boston without murdering any of the fearless pedestrians or ambitious truck drivers that throng the streets. (And to that I say: YOLO.)

So, hopped up on a cocktail of positive post-event emotions, I hit the streets of Boston early on a Thursday, armed with Hozier’s latest EP and a spirit of recklessness. The next three days would be almost entirely spent in solitude—and after the recent rush of socialization, I found myself looking forward to it. 

The three hours to the Airbnb passed quickly, after the teeth-clenching stress of exiting the city. Countryside spread out quickly past the city limits, concrete fading away to sprawling trees and winter pastures. I drove winding roads through forests, snowfields, and mist-covered glens, with an odd, growing feeling of realizing that the world does, in fact, look like this. The photographs on the cover of Country magazine at my grandparent’s house as a kid captured real places—like the red barns and fog-covered fields just out my windows.

All Things End

I reached my Airbnb with time to spare, and had just enough time to walk to the grocery store before dark—another strange, purple occurrence. People live like this, too. Walking places, not spread thin across the world like butter sliding haphazardly across a skillet.

The Texan had much to reflect on.

Snowshoes or spikes? Choose your fighter!

The morning of my climb was simple, straightforward. Alone, I had little to do but eat and dress, take a moment to have coffee by the window on my own sweet time. My hike waited for me, only 15 short minutes away, predicted to only run around four hours, round trip. And I wasn’t in a hurry.

I packed slow, drove slower. No one to rush me. The sun hid behind powdered clouds on the drive, mist weaving in gusts over the winding highway. I passed very few cars. Even just a weekend up here in these wide hills was ghostly, intimately silent.

When I arrived, the trailhead was muddy. Not snow-covered. I immediately had a choice to make: Snowshoes or spikes? I’d used neither before, but packed both in an abundance of caution—and this was unfamiliar terrain. Looking around, there wasn’t much snow on the ground, most melted. Who knew what it would look like higher up, though.

I rolled the dice, and picked up the spikes, leaving the snowshoes in their bag in the car. For better or worse, I almost always choose to travel light.

Imagine Boulevard of Broken Dreams playing loudly in the background

The first mile or so passed simply, a quiet wind upwards on a slick, muddy trail. I was immediately glad that I’d chosen spikes over snowshoes, since hiking involved mostly dragging my boots through slick, slightly-vertical mush. No snow on the trail thicker than an inch or two at most.

And while the parking lot below had held a handful of cars, I didn’t see anyone else on the trail—and wouldn’t for hours.

As I walked, slow and careful up the steep grade upwards, I felt the silence settle over me. The last three days of meetings, airports, and even the joy of other people I’d met peeled away from me, a shed skin sloughed off. People, especially people you immediately share so much with, provide such a fountain of delight. It’s a good thing, community, connection. A dear friend once called it sacred.

But there’s this, too: Walking in slow-piled snow, alone, for what felt like formless hours. Jacketed against 40-degree weather, taking a long slow trail upwards at my own pace. It’s just me, here, in the sweeping wind between naked trees, stripped to the bark for winter. I can hear the streams, thawed for spring, flush with snowmelt, as easy as the beat of my own heart. The gasp of my own breath is just another half-wild sound in the wild around me.

I am so completely, utterly alone. And I’m… happy?

Which is such a powerful thing to become aware of, as a change in one’s self. I’ve spent enough of my life waiting for someone else to do what I want to do. Sure, I still catch myself turning to my side, reflexively looking for someone to share the moment with, finding nothing, no one.

But this is the fact of it: No one else will follow all the places I want to go. Sometimes, these roads are just for me. And being a little lonely on a trail is nothing compared to waiting; and watching your dreams drip away from you.

Coming to you live from the Appalachian trail (briefly)

An hour or so passed without incident, marked only by a distinct increase in snow depth and the clouds collecting in the distance. I passed a small shelter, covered in graffiti, crossed a series of small snowmelt streams. As I got higher on the mountain, the nature of some of these trails as ski trails began to evidence itself—the drifts got deeper, and some sharp bends had me scrambling upwards on my hands and knees through snow piled several feet high.

The Bellows pipe trail is several smaller trails smashed together—and, briefly, includes a section of the Appalachian trail. About two-thirds of the way up, maybe slightly less, you spend a couple bends on the actual Appalachian trail before the summit trail breaks off again.

It felt like foreshadowing, that moment, seeing the sign mundanely directing towards the trail, up and down. One of my big dreams is hiking the whole thing start to finish—and I did think, briefly, of simply heading down that trail and never coming back. Catch ya later, suckers, I return to my people.

But I had to come back and write this essay, at the very least, and continued. One day, trail. One day. I’ll be back.

The clouds, also, continued to pile up overhead, and I did some light mental math about what to do if it rained. Thunder and lightning meant turning around, but rain by itself was tolerable, in my waterproof gear. Nothing on this trail so far had promised anything close to a steep edge or drop-off, so, I’d risk it.

But no rain was forthcoming.

On the last stretch upwards—just as I could see the concrete tower that market the summit looming in the distance, I ran into my first other person of the day. A skier, in short sleeves, waterproof pants, and well-loved skis, slogging upwards to the peak of the slopes. (I assumed a local, based on the attire, and instantly felt overdressed.) I wondered about the feasibility of skiing through the close turns and melting snow below, but he seemed to be having a good time.

We greeted each other, and I quickly passed him in my trek upwards. I noted, as always, the rarity of being a woman alone outside. I often meet men alone, and see women with partners semi-regularly. Women hiking by themselves are few and far between. A fact which saddens me more than I have language to express.

Alone again, as I neared the top, light snow began to fall.

The summit: It’s mostly flat?

Greylock’s summit is a somewhat deceptive thing. You don’t reach a peak, so much as you break out of the trees onto a road. In the summer, you can drive to the top, but here in March, it’s still covered in snow.

Above that road, there’s a short path past an empty lodge and some picnic tables so deep in snow you can barely see the top, and then, finally, a break in the trees reveals the memorial tower.

I waded through the drifted snow, and broke out of the sparse evergreen trees to a large, flat, grassy summit.

Made it!

The top of Greylock is large, more of a plateau than a peak. From one side, you can see the valley below, and the surrounding mountains spread out in a ring ranging out to the grey-clouded horizon. The sky meets the hills with much the same uniformity as the sky meets the ocean—both are dark grey and lightly menacing, here.

On the other side, Greylock’s 92-ft tall WWI memorial tower scrapes the sky.

This monument, the Veterans War Memorial Tower, resembles a lighthouse, and marks the service of all servicemen and servicewomen from the Commonwealth. In the summer, it’s open to the public, but winter has snow piled a foot in front of the (locked, ask me how I know) door.

I made a loop around the top of the summit, as snow powdered my hair and wind—stronger here than it’d been below the tree line, but not unbearable—bit at my cheeks. The view, blue-ridged and whatever the most complimentary way you can say dreary is, stretched out gorgeous from every angle. Grey, distant, and utterly beautiful.

That’s Greylock, baby.

After about fifteen minutes of trying to take comprehensive pictures of the view for friends, family, and myself—it was time to brave the descent.

Knees are god’s curse to mankind

It is at this point in the journey that I must be honest with y’all—I was doing something very stupid here, with this hike. Two weeks prior to my trip to Boston, I tweaked my bad knee in a jiujitsu round, caught in a heel hook that I didn’t tap to quickly enough. All that week in Boston, I’d been uncharacteristically sedentary, as walking for more than about fifteen minutes at a time sent excruciating pain up that leg. Once irritated, I’d generally have to stay off my feet for a few hours until it subsided… A fantastic injury for one of the most walkable cities in America.

Naturally, at the end of the week, I decided to hike six miles as previously planned.

The good news was that inclines seemed to be better than declines, so getting to the top of Greylock wasn’t an issue. Twenty minutes or so into the decent, however, I became very aware of my poor decision-making. The knee made itself known, compression sleeve or not, loudly. It’s the getting up the mountain that matters, getting down is way less relevant. Right?  

After about half an hour into the descent, I stopped for ten minutes to sit in the snow and take painkillers. Snow still drifted down from the sky, and I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I wasn’t in a hurry, I reminded myself. I had time. I could take it.

I picked up again after a few minutes, resolving to slow my pace, and lean on my poles more. The trail wasn’t going anywhere.

Mission status: SICK

This resolution lasted exactly as long as it took for a metric fuckton of naproxen to kick in—and for the downhill section of ski slopes to appear, unsupervised.

When you have an injury, naturally, you look to minimize stress to that area. Going downhill properly, step by step, would cause strain. Hurling myself bodily down the slope—face-first or primly like a schoolteacher descending a playground slide—would cause less strain to the aforementioned knee. Also, it would be sick.

So, I did. I slipped and slid, thanking the thick waterproof material of my heavy pants for enabling the seal-like gracelessness with which I sent myself downhill. After the first slope, I was deeply grateful for the solitude on the mountain—mostly because no one else was around to hear me cackling with laughter. Yeah, I slid down on my ass. What about it?

That was fun. Just truly, ridiculously fun. It was freeing, that wide-open dearth of company. And that’s so strange. 

In the open space beside me where no one walks—I can toss myself downhill without reprimand. I can slide on my ass over snowdrifts and gleefully push the limits of my body with no one to caution me otherwise. It’s a deep inhale, this space to know my own knowledge of my own physical limits. I know what I can take. No one else gets to determine that for me, and no one else truly knows. I get to find and push that ceiling. That’s a gift.

I was on a mountainside, ice-pick deep in snow, and being just so stupid. And having a fabulous time with it.  

Back in mud territory

The last hour was defined primarily by two experiences: The constant companionship of stabbing knee pain, and the sudden realization that I started accidentally freestyling my way down the mountain instead of staying on trail. (That happens, when your method of locomotion becomes rolling.) Sorry, signs warning to stay on the trail. I also didn’t want me to be doing that.

When I reached a crossroads I didn’t recognize, I returned to the serious business of getting back alive. A quick check of the map got me back on a route back to the car, with just under half an hour left in the hike. A good thing, too—I was now at “don’t bend it and hope for the best” with my right leg.

I walked, back in mud territory now, so no danger of sliding, the last mile or so back to the trailhead. The snow had stopped, but the sky hadn’t cleared, and the overcast sun felt a long, long way away. I walked quietly at this point, not worn out so much as peaceful. Content that I had done what I came to do.

Silence held, and the wind blew chill. The spirit of play quieted back to reflection.

I’ve felt a lot of strange joys in the last year—and found a lot of strange disappointments, too. In this quest to find what brings joy, what makes the heart beat, there is too an experience of the opposite kind. This does not bring joy, this does not delight. The highs are high, and so too are the lows. This, not that. That, not this.

The feeling in the last leg of that journey was none of those. I felt so little, honestly, I was a little concerned. What’s wrong? Does this not please you, I said to the little gremlin that lives in my brain and makes more decisions than I would like to admit.

But no. This wasn’t discontent I felt—just a quiet, pleasant happiness. No insane joy, no wild high, just the comfortable happiness of doing something I wanted to do.

Alone is enough

It was a quiet, easy thing to get back to my Airbnb on the hill before dark. I showered, made a sandwich, started to upload pictures and shared them with dear friends and family. Their support and enthusiasm rolled in immediately, so precious and palpable. (I laughed at myself a little, seeing it—how could I think I was really alone, even all the way out here, when so much love went with me everywhere?)

Settled on an orange divan under a knitted blanket so sapphire you could cut and mount it, I read and scrolled until the sun went down in a pleasant silence. Sounds filled the twilight: the ache of the radiator a few feet away, the ghost of the wind against the eaves, the creak of the floorboards. So many quiet noises, and my own breath.

Alone, I could hear everything. Alone, I wondered, if I did not fill that moment more fully than I ever might have otherwise.

And in that quiet evening: Alone was enough.