By Claire Larson
When I decide to spend time in our open spaces, it’s not always with great enthusiasm or the spark and glow of an REI model. More often than not, the uphill climb begins long before I approach the trailhead. At times it seems the steepest terrain of all is that of lacing up my shoes and filling up my water bottle. It’s that mental tug-o-war that must be traversed, the trudging through muddy doubt and slippery self-criticism that is most daunting. I have to choose to press on, bushwhacking through the thickets of my own anxiety to reach solid ground. I have to seek the fresh air, the light and space that will help mend my wounds. There’s no perfect piece of gear that can get me there, no map or marker. I have to muster the strength from within every time.
Once on the trail, my feet fall into step. My legs carry me along toward a sense of steady confidence that is beyond me. Usually, about twenty minutes pass until I even realize I’m outside. It takes distance and time to shed the trance of everyday worry and overwhelm. It requires persistence, pulse building with pace, the pushing and pulling of more breath. But then, sometimes suddenly, sometimes more gradually, the fog begins to lift. A shift takes place and my vision sharpens. I begin to notice the way the sunlight pours over each stalk of grass, a soft golden spotlight shining on every sharp silhouette. I marvel over the texture and vivacity of scattered patches of rust-colored lichen against cool, gray stone. I feel the crunch of dust and gravel beneath my feet and sense the brittle bones of drifting tumbleweed. I pull on this thread as long as I’m able; trying not to grip too tightly, lest it snap or snag. Sometimes, I’m successful and this acute state of bliss sustains me. Other times, the static of my thoughts trickles back in and it’s touch and go as I continue down the path. But, even the briefest of tastes is so rich and delicious I’m compelled to come back again and again.
When COVID-19 hit, I found myself in a new kind of wilderness. Everyone I knew was there with me, but we couldn’t look into one another’s eyes or share in an embrace as means of comfort. Suddenly, drastically, we were wandering through foreign valleys and weathering storms we never could have imagined or prepared for. I felt scared, overwhelmed, disoriented, confined. Sure, there were bright spots and unexpected gifts but, the uncertainty kept crashing in with no end in sight. And, for me, it became clear that, if I was going to endure, I needed to ask for help. From others, from above, from the land that had sustained me and many of my ancestors. I was going to need to revisit some ancient trails in order to heal and grow and find the good in all of this. Since I couldn’t cultivate any sense of order within, I’d have to seek it in the unchanging symmetry of nature, in the animals that were going on with their lives, in the rushing of the river and the strength of the banks that contained them.
The forests continue to beckon and, I’ll admit, there are many times I’m unable to muster the courage to show up. I find myself perched atop that old rickety fence of “I know I should go but I just can’t”. It’s a tough tension to reconcile. But, when I do get out, when I snap into my skis or double knot my boots and let the air wash over me, I am reminded of the eternal. In these moments, our public lands become a potent prescription, a soothing salve in a time of great sickness. In these moments, I don’t feel lost. Out here I am home and I am healed.