My east coast friends are both amused and baffled by my new love affair with hiking. They swear that I have been sucked into the Southern California lifestyle vortex of bean sprouts and healthy living, overnight. The reality is that hiking has turned out to be a happy, soul saving accident.
About six weeks before I was scheduled to leave for California my five year relationship came to an abrupt and painful end. By the time I left DC I was a shell of myself and I was virtually unrecognizable. All the drama and upset had effectively sucked the confidence and joy out of me. Only the love, support, and insistence of family and friends got me across the country - with the hopes that I could pick up the pieces once I got to sunny Los Angeles. But what I discovered, once all the fanfare died down, was that my sadness made it impossible to perform the smallest task at hand. I fixated on the broken relationship and saw myself as a failure. This is not how I had envisioned the start of my L.A. adventure.
My new housemate, an avid hiker, tried to pull me out of my increasingly darkening mood by inviting me on her morning hikes. I had met Carolyn two years ago at a writing fellowship and we became fast friends. She had taken me hiking during a couple of my visits west and I absolutely hated the experience. Tipping the scale at 300 pounds it was like pushing a boulder up the mountain with a q-tip. Impossible.
Every morning we went up on the trail I tried to remember that living in California was to be about new starts and pushing myself beyond what I thought I was capable of. Lumbering my way up Verdugo Mountain those first couple weeks was painful. I felt inadequate and struggled with a great deal of shame that I had allowed myself to get so big that I could barely make it five feet without gasping for air and stopping. Carolyn was extremely supportive, but it was difficult to watch her seemingly effortlessly make her way up the winding ridge, all while controlling two large dogs that outweighed her by at least 20 pounds. It didn’t matter that she had been hiking for over ten years and took extremely good care of her body; it frustrated me that I couldn’t keep up. As far as I was concerned hiking was just another thing that I could fail at. Those first couple weeks I almost never finished the hike.
Then one morning, after another restless night, I decided I was going to go out hiking by myself. I chose Griffith Park which is purportedly an easier hike than Verdugo. The verdict is still out on that. As I pulled up to the virtually empty parking lot, I promised myself I would make it all the way to the top no matter how long it took. The Griffith hike is challenging to me because it immediately starts off with a steep incline. You are walking at least 15 minutes before you encounter a flat lay of land to rest your burning legs and lungs.
That first solo hike I felt every single step, every single curve and bend. I noticed how other hikers stared at me as they passed (running or briskly walking) and I knew they were judging me, doubting that this big, black woman, heaving and grunting her way up the dusty trail, would ever make it to the top. By the time I did I was drenched. I’m sure I looked like a shiny black piece of coal under the hot morning sun. But I had done it. I had made it to the top at my own pace and on my own terms.
By the time I made it back down to my car, and sucked down 16 ounces of water, I suddenly realized that for the entire hour I was up on that trail I couldn’t feel my heartache. My body had only one imperative – get air into my lungs - if I insisted on taking another step. Every other worry was pushed aside.
So, every morning, at least five times a week, I wake up just after sunrise and lace up my shoes. No matter what kind of day I had before or how the day is going to unfold later on, for that one hour I have peace. For that one hour I can’t cry. For that one hour I don’t feel like a failure.
And it’s also nice that I’ve lost 17 pounds.
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