About two weeks after my dog Sadie passed away in August, a beloved, effervescent, joyful colleague at work was taken by cancer. I also traveled on a long-awaited and blissfully distracting vacation. These were two very different things, but they kept me from thinking too hard about Sadie and the giant hole she left in my world.
But now I’m back to real life. There are no more events to plan. No more travel logistics to worry about (a quick trip to Vegas, upcoming, is cake to plan when compared to 10 days in Iceland). Nope, it’s just me, my empty apartment, and my stupid brain. It graces me with heartbreakingly vivid memories of Sadie’s last few moments, nags me with ethical musings about if I truly did the right thing in putting my dog to sleep, and pesters me with all the normal swirling thoughts of an over-thinker, like “man, that one conversation with that one person…I really messed that up” or “jeez, was I professional and collaborative enough at that meeting?”
It shoves a dagger into my heart by slyly querying, like a devil on my shoulder, “Are you really anything now, other than a lonely spinster? After all, when you had a dog, you were a slightly-less pathetic dog mama, who at least had a living thing that relied on you.”
Yes, I know. This is crap. But grief is weird. The brain is weird.
And yes, I could get another dog, or see a therapist, or go take a walk and cook some healthy food and get more sleep and do yoga and all those things that might help.
But getting another dog isn’t in the cards right now, and I’m me, so instead, I ran for the mountains.
"And into the woods I go, to lose myself and find my soul."
Ah, John Muir. Such a way with words. So inspiring. You were definitely on my mind as I drove west and south toward the Peaks of Otter recreation area in Virginia. I had a romantic solo weekend planned: two nights at a campsite, lovely little mountains to climb nearby, fall foliage to gawk at, making my first solo campfire, reading my fantasy romance novel while cozy in my sleeping bag as the wind whistled…ahhh. It was going to be perfect. I was going to shake off some of the gloom, rediscover myself, blah blah. I think you get where this is going. As someone said recently, and I paraphrase, “Those romantic plans are never that romantic in real life.”
It started with me forgetting stuff, some really essential stuff like hiking poles, my camera, a hat, my puffy coat, gloves, for pete’s sake. Who forgets GLOVES when you’re prepping to sleep in the mountains in the fall?
All of those things were manageable, if annoying. But then I learned there was no firewood to be bought. Dammit, and me without my axe.*
Ok, I thought. No biggie. It’s still pretty here. Instead of cooking on my stove while toasting my feet by the fire, I went to the lodge and had a glass of wine and a nice meal. Never mind that the hosts gave me that “Oh, just one?” crap, as though they’ve never had a single person eat at their restaurant before. I called them out on it, and was rewarded with an awkward laugh. The meal and the view were lovely, though.
I enjoyed myself, read my book, and basked contentedly in my aloneness, feeling the satisfaction of knowing I can confidently do adventures by myself. I didn’t used to be able to really enjoy dining alone, but I’ve grown as a person. :)
Next, I headed back to camp and to bed. Of course, I’d forgotten my warm pajamas, because of course I did. But I would deal.
I always toss and turn while tent sleeping, but this didn’t seem too bad. It was a little chilly but I didn’t think it was awful. However, my body thought otherwise, and when I woke the next day, it was clear from the first step on the trail that my legs were not having it. Well, this was after I added a half a mile to the hike as I had to go back to the car twice: once to get my watch and Garmin device, the 2nd to check that I’d locked the car. Did I mention I was not at my sharpest? Anyway, my feet, ankles, knees, quads…they all protested way too much. Sparing you the details of the hikes that should have been relatively easy but were something like torture, much of the day was spent plotting my escape back to my warm bed. After I came down from Sharp Top mountain, I grabbed a quick nap in the tent, threw my stuff in the car, and lit out for home.
Don’t get me wrong, I still hiked about 8 miles, took in some pretty views, and even saw a bear (from the safety of a vehicle). I still got satisfaction from finishing a couple hikes despite how much it hurt. And an unexpected bonus was that I was so wrapped up in putting one foot in front of the other that I didn’t really have time to think deep thoughts about my life and purpose and whatnot.
Why is that a good thing, you ask?
Well, because whoever said that the worst day hiking is better than most regular days wasn’t wrong. Because this is my life. Sadness, grief and not being at my best (seriously, who forgets their gloves and puffy coat when camping??)…these are things I have to work through, not hide from.
So while I wish I’d had some kind of great personal revelation while out and about, that’s just not how it went. It would have been great if this trip had chased the silence of my Sadie-free apartment away, but that’s asking a lot. I think getting through the obstacles was the point – being reminded that even though it hurts, forward motion still needs to happen. And I won’t lie, it’s cool that I could sculpt and craft that weekend however I wanted to, obstacles or no. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted to, and bail early if I so chose. That’s something only a solo adventurer can do.
Bottom line? Some hiking trips are epic. And some are just…not. Sometimes the issues you started with are still there when it’s over.
That’s an important lesson to learn.
*I don’t own an axe, by the way.
Does it count that you have a lot of friends, including this one, who care about and admire you? For years now, I've wished I had as much gumption as you back when I was first alone. By reading your blogs, I've always felt like I was still going to a counselor. I wish I could have been the help to you that you have been to me. Hang in there, Jodi. You are one of the strongest women I've ever known.