And you moved up here?
We’re stationed in Cambridge [with the Navy]. . .[Stacey’s] folks live up in this area so we pretty much relocated up here instead of being in the Boston area. Any good hiking plans coming up? Well, we're one month out from having a baby so we’re kinda trying to do some simpler hikes now than we did last year, so we're probably going to be sticking around, staying close to home in this area the next few weeks, and then probably take a break once the baby is born but--I don't know when you can bring a baby up on a hike-- but as soon as we can, we’ll be back up. Do you have a name picked out for your upcoming child? Madeleine. Well, we haven’t officially decided but we call her that every day and so it's pretty much done deal.
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I ignored the advice, through- hiked the A.T. end-to-end and the leg was fine-- in fact, it was made a lot stronger by the experience. But the knee still troubles me from time to time. It's been a bit of a rollercoaster: some years I don't seem to have much trouble with it, other years I do. Going on thirty years of vigorous hiking since the initial injury, It's held out far better than I'd expected. The injury has changed my hiking over the years: it has slowed me down a bit on the downhill and flats, made me more careful of how I walk, and make me reasonable about the miles (I rarely will do a hike of more than 16 miles in a day). I have also taken up barefoot hiking (long story; fodder for a separate post) which has taken some stress off the knee during hikes (one must step more gently on the downhill when shoeless, which reduces wear and tear on the connective tissue).
My left knee looks different than my right knee: it is thick with internal scar tissue and musculature which, I imagine, have insulated and buffered it, not unlike how a tree will grow gnarly around an old wound. I imagine that my careful hiking practices and regular strengthening have extended the life of my knee beyond the threatened diagnosis (every doctor that looks at it reminds me what a mess it is). I have not yet submitted to the knife. I rarely wear a brace and I use just one wooden hiking stick for support. But it would be foolish to imagine that knee replacement surgery is not in my future.
The easiest and most common conclusion to that question, post-recovery, is bragging: I survived such-and-such, I’m a such-and-such badass, look at my badassery and tremble. Not to demean the value of celebration or the power of positive thinking, but if that’s your only tack and reward you’ll find plenty of back-pats on social media to help prop it up—you won’t even need to do it yourself; others will be glad to inflate your ego for you and help you dismiss your mortality. Ego-props as an end-goal are cheap prizes, however. It’s like hiking partway up a mountain and turning back, not because the weather is evil and I can’t reasonably go the rest of the way but because I am lacking in a fundamental kind of ummph that has nothing to do with hiking ability or trail conditions. It means I was never forced (or never conceded) to move beyond the denial stage (I’m not subject to the Law of Entropy the way other people are) or the anger stage (I “beat” my injury) before I was fortunate enough to recover. In his book Who Dies? the late Stephen Levine, famous for his series of books on conscious suffering and dying, asks the reader to imagine they are terminally ill, unable to care for themselves in the most basic of ways. Levine poses a series of questions: [paraphrasing here] when you are no longer able to do the things that most defined you, and others have to take care of your most basic needs (on the extreme end: buying your groceries, rolling you around in a wheelchair, bathing you, wiping your ass) what are you? who are you? where is that “I” that you were in previous years: the father, the attorney, the bicyclist, the carpenter, the doctor, the mother, the caregiver, the football player, the rock-climber, the skier. . .the hiker? Along those lines you may ask yourself: Who am “I” when my days of obsessively and relentlessly hiking Ultras and Grids and Redlines are officially over? Who am I when hiking a 4,000-footer is out of reach? Who am I when I can no longer easily walk down a flight of stairs? This line of questioning automatically awakens my old friend Despair—maybe he (or she) is a friend of some of you, too. A few years back I impaled my leg on a sharp tree branch while on a long hike through the Mahoosuc Range (a side bushwhack up the now-appropriately-named “Trident” peak); little bits of wood were imbeded deep in the wound; the wound became infected and I went in for surgery. I thought: what if they can’t fix this? What if I lose my leg? Can I live with that? I won’t sugarcoat it for you: a little, dark piece of the hiker in me was quietly engaging suicide scenarios even before I went in for surgery. I’m not mentioning this to set the stage for judging that kind of thinking. The beloved and brilliant White Mountains author Guy Waterman, who suffered debilitating (albeit hidden), lifelong mental health issues, ended his life by committing intentional hypothermia on Franconia Ridge—for a hiker, quite a way to go out. I cannot know his suffering and so cannot judge it or the outcome he chose. I can only use it as a mirror as I observe my own thoughts during the times I’ve had to question the continued existence of my identity in the face of a contrary or unacceptable reality. Any forced change in one’s self-identification is itself a kind of death. In preparing for "death" the mind grapples with the stages of coping with loss: denial, anger, bargaining, grief, and acceptance. Some of us move through those stages more easily than others; some get stuck. If I can no longer hike big mountains, but can still hike, the “big mountain hiker” must die to make room for a different kind of hiking identity. If I can’t hike anymore but can swim, kayak, bicycle, whatever, then the hiker must die and make room for those new identities. There is a loss and grieving inherent in that even if you work hard at burying the emotional labor—don’t let anyone tell you different. But beyond the endless morphing of identities lies the deeper question: what is this “I” that I keep creating? Is it important? How? When I strip it away, what is beneath it? In terms of hiking, one can ask more focused questions: what exactly IS a hiker? What does it really mean to be a hiker--beyond mere goal-posting and exploration? What is the kernel of that identity—and does it really even exist? I don’t have answers to these questions (and all answers will likely be subjective and privately individual) but I do think it’s important to ask them sooner than later. In some aboriginal cultures there is a practice of “preparing for death” which begins at a young age and continues until the end of biological life. The process, which involves song, vision quests, prayer, and other practices, is really a delving into the question of self-identity and what lies beyond it. As I understand it, if it is done well it can prepare the mind for the “little deaths” of identity that occur throughout life: changes in occupation or role, loss of loved ones, tribal warfare, change of physical ability and mental acuity. And in modern life in America, also divorce, unemployment, foreclosure, empty nests, pet death, failed business ventures, stock market crashes, hospitalizations, breakups, house fires, car accidents. . .and hiking injuries. If I can muster the courage to step beyond the props of the ego, the most important question might not be "when will I recover and hike again?" but "when the hiker can no longer hike [eventually, whether temporarily or more lastingly], what is left? Exactly who is this 'hiker' I have come to imagine I am?" Thanks to those who submitted photos and stories of their injuries. [Photo credits, by name in caption]. Postscript: my recent knee diagnosis is “badly contused ligaments/tendons /patella.” I consider it a deferment.
MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: Thanks for agreeing to interview. Nancy, you’ve been hiking and doing yoga for a while now. When did you start doing yoga, and what was your motivation? NANCY: In 2001 I was visiting my brother in Boulder Colorado and he asked me if I was interested in taking a hot yoga class. I said, "sure" and after taking two Bikram Yoga classes back-to-back I was hooked. At the time, my gym was offering Hot Power Yoga and I began taking class several times a week. I loved the heat, the detox and the blissful feeling post yoga. I almost couldn’t get enough of yoga. . . I absolutely felt the physical strength that I was gaining from these classes and the mental strength and clarity slowly seeped in over the years. In retrospect, rolling out my mat provided a haven for me to be with myself and help me figure out life's challenges like the separation and divorce that I was in the process of and how to handle the challenges of raising a teenage boy. . .At times, my yoga mat became the place I just lay myself down in child’s pose and cry. I’ve been teaching since 2004 but in 2011 I completed a 200-hour yoga certification course that provided me with greater depth and knowledge of the eight limbs of yoga and it became more integrated into my life. I see yoga as a lifestyle rather than an opportunity to roll out your mat and practice some poses. MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: and hiking? NANCY: I dabbled in hiking as a teenager and got more interested in it when I met my former husband back in the early 80’s. He was a hiker and backpacker and I was drawn to spending time in nature and physically challenging myself. When we started a family we camped and hiked in Franconia Notch and Acadia National Park. We even took our boys to the Lonesome Lake AMC hut to start preparing them for backpacking trips. Well, life doesn’t always go as planned . . . but my love for hiking and camping grew. I continued hiking and camping with my kids and some family friends, but in 2012 I joined the New England Over 40 Hiking Meetup group. At that time, my youngest son was heading off to college and I was going to have a lot more free time. I just naturally thought that hiking would be a great way to spend it. Joining a [hiking] meetup group seemed like the perfect solution to find other people like me that wanted to hike more. MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: And now you've combined these two things in Peaks and Poses, where you take people on hikes, and during the hike the group practices yoga. Do you see hiking and yoga as complimenting each other, and if so, how? NANCY: First, I see both of them as individual practices. Each one requires discipline and presence. I always practice my asanas after a day of hiking. It’s a great way to stretch my legs and shoulders too. My deeper yoga practice shows up during a hike in various ways. Sometimes, I prefer to be on my own even amongst my friends quieting my mind, taking in the scenery or just contemplating something going on in my life. The mountains and hiking offer the space to do that. I also feel very alive and connected to my body while hiking which I think I learned through yoga. Being present is always important in both yoga and hiking especially hiking and watching where you place your feet. . . who wants to fall into a river because you misplaced your foot?! MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: With Peaks and Poses, do you find that you’re exposing more people to yoga than would normally try it, and do you find that you’re getting some yoga people more interested in hiking? NANCY: I think I am exposing more people to hiking and the beauty of the mountains. Most women keep repeating trips with me because they have found a connection with nature and they want more of that and less of the life [of] “disconnection.” We have a lot of fun on my hikes and they meet other people too. . . then they start hiking together. MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: What are the best mountains for doing yoga on? NANCY: The first view point heading up Welch & Dickie, Mount Pemigewassett, a spot between Mizpah Hut and Mount Pierce, some of the ledges of Hedgehog Mountain, the dock on Lonesome Lake, and Sugarloaf. MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: What are some of the impediments to doing yoga in the mountains? NANCY: The biggest impediments to yoga on the mountain is the massive amounts of people and weather conditions. I try to be open and flexible to where we have our short practices. . . One year we did yoga in Lakes of the Clouds Hut as it was too windy to summit [Mount] Monroe. It was really cool as other people staying there joined in. I am finding that the practice of yoga is changing on my hikes and it's not just about doing a pose but staying present so you don't twist an ankle or fall in to a stream. MOUNTAIN PEOPLE: What is your favorite yoga pose for hiking? NANCY: I think my favorite pose is Reverse Warrior. My legs are strong from yoga and hiking and you get such a nice side body stretch and breathe deep into [the] lungs. One could say that Stowe Pinnacle (2,651ft feet; Stowe, Vermont) has a dog, but it would be more accurate to say that dog has the Pinnacle. At one point, not too long ago, two dogs had Stowe Pinnacle: golden retrievers Sampson and Baylor. Sadly, Baylor passed away and now there is just Sampson. If you’ve hiked the mountain you have more than likely run into Sampson (and Baylor too, if you hiked it a few years ago). By all accounts (well chronicled in local newspapers; even made the subject of a documentary film) the dogs hiked the mountain on their own, without their owners, finding their own way up and down the mountain for over a decade, in all seasons, nearly every day--often multiple times per day. The dogs were such a routine presence on the mountain that it became impossible to think of the mountain and not also think of the dogs. The rest of us? Yeah, just tourists. Now the mountain is down to just one lord, Sampson. Stowe Pinnacle--the mountain apart from its lord--is a wonderful, pointy knob in Vermont's Worcester Range, a ridge parallel to the crest of the Green Mountains located directly east of Mount Mansfield (the highest summit in Vermont). The open summit of the Pinnacle is an excellent place from which to observe Mansfield across the Stowe Valley. You can get to the top by way of the Stowe Pinnacle Trail, 1.8 miles one way (and you can keep going—over the Hogback and on to Mount Hunger and other peaks). Chances are excellent that you will run into Sampson along the way.
The Pinnacle is the perfect place to share with good company, lingeringly in good weather or briefly in bad—and I suspect Sampson needs our company more than ever since his companion Baylor passed away. This life has many rewards if you only look, but immortality certainly isn’t one of them. A mountain. . .a view. . .a dog. . .good company. Maybe a sunset. If that were our only reward, it might be enough. |
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