I apologize that my recent posts have been about trauma. I’ve been feeling particularly down about my health. In addition to the nerve-zinging elbow sprain and its resultant (valid!) ruminations about my ability to control my own body movements, my asthma also flared up this month. Asthma and its resultant dips in blood oxygen levels are one possibility for crushing mid-day fatigue I feel even after sleeping 9-10 hours a night. Of course, fatigue could be caused by anything. I took my asthma doctor’s advice to get the Covid-Flu-HepB boosters last week, and the vaccines put me under for two full days. I’m out of thyroid meds and it seems like I won’t be able to follow up with my endocrinologist until mid-October at the earliest. But when I look at all of the pills and puffers on my nightstand, I think, “I should not be on all of these medications in my 40s. I need to get off all of these. Maybe I should just quit now, cold turkey? Maybe try the keto diet instead?”
By Friday, I had fully justified a plan to stay in bed all weekend — lay next to my HEPA filter, detox off my meds, and make some sort of plan for mail-order liquid meals so I never have to worry about food again (Is Huel still a thing? Such a terrible name for such a bland product. But effective!)
Like I said, I’ve been feeling down. But I acknowledged that the only time staying in bed all day sounds appealing is when I’m flirting with depression. So well after noon, with outdoor temperatures spiking into the high 80s as they have been for most of September, I hauled myself out the door.
I pondered where I could do the least amount of walking, see some beautiful fall leaves, and still enjoy my time in relative solitude. I landed on Caribou, an old mine west of Nederland. Of course, the expected thing happened as soon as I ventured into the world. The moment I stepped under the golden canopy of aspen trees, my mood brightened. I chatted with enthusiastic mountain bikers who told tales of secret trails, then decided to pick my way to the top of Bald Mountain. After the trail faded, I thought, “I wonder where this ridge goes?” I descended through the cedar forest, emerged in a meadow, and looked toward a lovely valley climbing toward South Arapaho Peak. I couldn’t help myself. I had to find out where this valley led.
It was just so nice — padding along the loamy tundra, choosing my own line across bands of boulders and topping out at 12,500 feet while the early evening air was still warm and calm. I hadn’t planned for a longer hike and had no food, only a little water, and only a small headlamp. But once I connected with the Arapaho Glacier Trail, I thought, “If I loop around to FR505, I’ll see more fall leaves. It can’t be more than nine miles back to the car.”
So that’s how I ended up on a 14-mile hike — with a bit of running toward the end because twilight was approaching and I didn’t trust my emergency headlamp — when I hadn’t even wanted to get out of bed a few hours earlier. Although shallow breathing continues to limit my stamina, I feel slightly better at altitude — thank the clean mountain air with its last remnants of pollen long gone.
Saturday night’s forecast called for more than an inch of rain. I was thrilled. The winter winds are coming and I’m terrified of October fire danger. I went out for a run before the storm was expected to arrive, but my breathing was awful. Still, as I scrutinized weather reports over dinner, I realized it would likely snow overnight in the Indian Peaks. I clicked over to Brainard Lake’s reservation site, grabbed the last available pass for Sunday, and set another commitment to get out in the world. Ever since I returned from Switzerland, Boulder has been locked in record-breaking heat and the relentless doldrums of summer. A potential taste of winter was too enticing.
The snow line descended to 9,000 feet. My hike started at 10,000 feet, so thick slush and snow-bombing trees greeted me from the start. Fewer than 500 meters from the trailhead, my shoes were fully saturated and my feet were cold. Out of habit I veered toward Mount Audubon, certain that I wasn’t likely to get all that far in these wet and slippery conditions. But I dug in my microspikes and single trekking pole and took my time. I had time. I had all of the time. And wow, what a magical place. The ethereal beauty of winter was dazzling after so much summer.
I climbed in solitude, not seeing anyone besides a large group of backpackers who said they spent the night below the ridge near 12,000 feet.
“Holy crap, that must have been a full white-out blizzard!” I exclaimed, remembering the inch of rain that drenched my house overnight.
“Yeah,” one guy replied, his expression blank with a thousand-yard-stare. “We’re glad to see the sun.”
Most of the morning had been drizzly and gray. The trailhead was still enveloped in fog when I set out just after noon. Then, as though it was just for me, the sun emerged from layers of clouds just as I emerged from the forest. Temperatures spiked into the high 30s, which can feel like summer at altitude when there’s not a whisper of a breeze and snow cover reflecting the sunlight. I hadn’t expected the heat, had not applied any sunscreen, and ended up stripping several layers, so I was properly burned by the end of the day. But the sun, the snow … it was all so glorious.
I had promised myself I would not continue beyond Audubon’s saddle. The summit ridge would be too dangerous with my hurt arm and high potential to twist a different limb in a crevice. Audubon is a classic Colorado pile of loose boulders. The rocks become incredibly difficult to navigate when covered in windblown snow of varying depths — anywhere from ankle-deep to knee-deep — which disguises the hidden gaps and wedges. So I wasn’t going to try it. I wasn’t. Still, I had time. I had all of the time.
I am not a patient person. My tendency to rush things is probably the impetus for many of my injuries. I become too future-focused and leave the moment where my physical body resides. The snow on Mount Audubon forced mindfulness. Each step had to be calculated to prevent a fall on my injured arm that could be disasterous. I reached out with my trekking pole, probed, determined the angle of approach and balance I’d need to summon, and took my step. Then I’d analyze the puzzle on the ground for the next logical step. Repeat for 400 vertical feet. My GPS detected no motion during that time and recorded no distance, but I assure you that the process took ages. I can’t think of another time I have moved so slowly and deliberately. When I topped out on that 13,000-foot peak in the late afternoon with only my own footprints leading to summit — assuring that I was almost certainly the only person to summit Mount Audubon on September 22 — I was pretty damn proud of myself.
My solo winter summit for the first day of fall.
On Monday, still buzzing from all things autumn, my friend Betsy and I planned to meet in Golden Gate Canyon for a leaf-peeping stroll. For Besty, who is living with a brain tumor, all movement must be slow and deliberate. She manages balance issues, loss of strength, numbness, and energy limitations with admirable determination and grace. Still, rocky trails are a difficult challenge. This five-mile loop would be a big leap of endurance. But she’s determined to grab what she can from the greedy jaws of cancer.
Betsy’s attitude is what I admire most about her. She acknowledges her hardships and doesn’t gloss over the difficult truths, but she continues to find joy and awe around every bend in her dizzying journey. As we hiked over a trail paved with golden leaves, she stopped to marvel at sharp blades of grass that autumn had dyed an otherworldly shade of red.
“I don’t understand the people who just want to give up,” she told me as she stood to take a few more steps before stopping to observe a cluster of bearberries. “Ever since I was diagnosed, everything has so much more meaning. I want to see it all.”
I felt a spark of shame at her reference to giving up, a reminder that I nearly spent the weekend in bed. I followed her gaze along the bearberry plants, bursting with bright green and red hues, dappled with sunlight filtered through the yellow aspen canopy, and above it all a sky so perfectly blue that it seemed as though this place had been rendered entirely in primary colors. A warm breeze swirled leaves around us as we continued walking. For a moment, I could almost see the world through Betsy’s eyes — so delicate and ephemeral. So valuable beyond measure.
The hike did wear her out before the end. The last mile forced a battle with wobbly limbs and a listing stride. I sympathized with these sensations and said so, but acknowledged that my balance issues are not the same as her balance issues. And my health issues are nothing like brain cancer — at least for now. None of us knows what the future holds. All we can do is live in the present, live for today. The seasons change and change again. The best among us ride these waves of time with their eyes wide open, taking in everything with gratitude and wonder.
I have to admit I don't fully understand some of these choices around physical limitations- like why does it have to be an unplanned 14 mile hike or mt summit in the snow vs staying in bed all weekend- surely it's possible to split the difference and still experience wonder, struggle, strength, awe, without risking injury quite so much? But that's why I don't have a fun and thrilling newsletter pondering existential quandaries in uncommonly experienced situations and you do. So I thank you for that. But I think I would also love to read your writing even if it was just about a normal low key hike with adequate snacks and things.
I struggle with getting up and getting out, but it’s always worth it when I do. Your friend’s experience is humbling. How easy it is to forget that every day is a gift, and beauty is everywhere when we open our eyes to it.