Magic

Two years ago, due to a confluence of events, I decided to go back to college. I had a complicated relationship with college in my 20s and never managed to complete more than a year or so of any degree program. (I tried three.) Thirty years later, I still regret not sticking with it—with something—and earning my piece of paper. So, I signed up for classes at my local community college, one of which was English I.

How much I loved this class—how it differed from expectations and how much I learned—is another post entirely. Basically, the class was structured around how to write a research paper, from picking a subject through writing a prospectus, the research phase, outlining, drafting, and putting together the final paper. I have always enjoyed the setup phase of writing a book—plotting, outlining, researching—so it’s no surprise I loved this process.

For my final paper, I picked a topic close to my heart: “We Need Nature to Thrive.” I planned to combine my experiences hiking, my thoughts on how being out on the trail benefited my mental health, and research on any correlations between the two. (There was a lot of great research.) My findings surprised even me, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience of researching and writing the paper.

But… about six weeks into the semester, into my project, I fell down the stairs and broke my foot and ankle. The break was bad enough to require surgery, plates, and pins, and the recovery and the months I spent not being able to walk were both frustrating and enlightening. Very much the former, but the experience also added another layer to my final paper. I could not hike and hated being stuck inside the house. I regularly crutched to the top of the driveway to get the mail (putting it in the backpack I wore for months to tote stuff around). I sat outside on the deck just to get sun and look at the trees. I imagined being out on the trail—the smell of the woods and crushed leaf mulch, the whisper of air between the trees and leaves. The chitter of small creatures. The sound and smell of creeks and waterfalls. The feel of the sun on my face as I crested hills and broke from beneath canopies. That soft burble of conversation from other hikers; meeting those hikers and being able to say in very few words what they and I were thinking: we’re out here and it’s worth it in every way.

My paper might have benefited from me being unable to hike but I missed being on the trail. I missed it more than the way you miss a favorite hobby. Walking—even around my neighborhood—is so much a part of my existence. I walk almost every day; in snow, in rain, and especially in the sun.

Needless to say, as soon as my doctor cleared me to walk any distance, I started the neighborhood route once again. Up until then, I had been getting on the exercise bike (with my doctor’s approval—but I think I’d have done it even without). I put my weight on my heel instead of using my toes, which helped with the broken metatarsal, but not so much with the ankle. But I needed to do something.

I started by walking up and down my street. Then I got around the neighborhood. The short version (about 1.5 miles), the longer version (2 miles), and then the full walk (2.5 miles). Around the first anniversary of my fall, in my next fall semester, I walked my nemesis—the South Loop at Big Pocono State Park.

I have twisted my ankles more times on that trail than any other. I had been walking the rim road for a couple of months and really wanted to try a ‘proper’ trail, but the hardest part of returning to hiking was not so much the lingering pain in my foot and ankle, but my confidence. I still had the occasional nightmare where I remembered falling and breaking bones and the thought of doing it again on a trail scared me. But one day, halfway around the rim road, I just veered off onto the South Loop and said to myself—I will do this. In sneakers, because I haven’t worn my hiking boots in over a year.

Sneakers were not the best decision but I took the hike slowly and carefully and conquered the trail. I hiked it three more times in the fall, and also walked the Levee Loop in Stroudsburg and down at Jacobsburg. Distance wasn’t a problem. I regularly racked up four to five miles. But I wanted to go further and what I really missed were challenging trails like Mt. Minsi and Mt. Tammany, overlooking the Delaware Water Gap. I used to hike both every spring. The first one week, the second a week later. You can see the top of the opposite trail from each peak and, well, it’s just a thing I like to do.

What I like (love) about these trails is the effort involved. It’s only about 1.3 miles to the summit of Mount Tammany, but there’s this pesky 1200ft elevation gain that means you’re pretty much climbing for most of the hike. Mount Minsi is a slightly less challenging climb with 1000ft of elevation spread over around 2 miles. So, less of an uphill battle. Still, both are challenging hikes (both listed as hard in the AllTrails app). The view at the top rewards your effort—it’s spectacular.

But even without the view, I would enjoy the hike because I love the climb. I love the feeling of expending that effort and the high I feel at getting to the top. I love these hikes for the physical exertion they require and not only knowing I am up to it but also the exhilaration of reaching a goal. I walk these trails simply for the joy of walking these trails.

I experience all of the same delights I mentioned earlier: the sounds, the smells, the sights. Just being out in nature. But there is something so rewarding about reaching the top of a hill. I totally get why people are compelled to climb mountains and even without resorting to research, I’d hypothesize that for a good proportion of them, it’s not so much about the view at the top, or even ticking that peak off of a list. It’s the climb.

So, anyway, the point of this post: I climbed Mount Tammany yesterday for the first time since I fell down those stairs and it was MAGIC. The view was breathtaking:

But what I enjoyed most was simply being out there. I drove home almost in a daze because of the high. I had climbed a mountain and I have been working so hard on regaining my fitness over the past eighteen months that I climbed that damned mountain without pausing for breath! I crested up and over, and on the way back down (I take the blue trail around the back on the way down), I remembered not only why I like this trail so much, this forest (Worthington State Forest) but why I had wanted to write that paper in the first place.

To express this feeling. To share that high. To acknowledge that I am not the only person who believes magic still exists—we just have to get out there to find it.