I Did It

The Walk Happened and Here's What Unfolded

We ambled up the trail at 5am, the smell of rock and cold and juniper circling around us on the breeze in the dark. Yes, Chris was with me. Yes, friends had convinced me I didn’t need to leave any earlier. I had started my bleed the day before and my body signaled, Be gentle, Molly, ask for comfort. My normal m.o. is to do the harder thing, to prove myself to myself. But there I was, choosing the middle path! Chris had agreed to walk with the dogs behind me in silence for first section of trees. Immediately, I knew I would have been fine alone. During my visions of walking into the forested night, I had somehow imagined myself in the pitch black without the broad sweep of a headlamp. Oh, the glory of the light in the dark. We were surprised and passed by a group of four swift college students hoofing it on a mission. Right afterwards, once we emerged from the trees and could see the looming shadow of the ridge, I told Chris, “I’m good, I don’t need you to walk with me anymore,” even though it felt strange to part with him. I hugged him and kept going with a knot in my throat.

Daybreak, rolling green, only halfway there, crystals, wind and hats, early on solitude

Mountain goats appeared like ghosts on the rocks.

No bears.

No lions.

Another group of college students passed me in the dark and soon the sun began to warm the rocks. I wouldn’t see many people during the 20-mile journey up and down steep mountains and across some rolling flats. Mostly alone for long stretches. Occasionally passed by very chipper (and bouncy) young runners, including our babysitter who later texted to make sure I had made it. I carried way too much water in clunky heavy metal water bottles and felt like the middle-aged lady in the straw hat without the right gear. Less self-judgment more laughing at what I must have looked like to these gazelle humans existing on almost no fuel it seemed. My endurance oriented worker-self tracked the sunlight and my intake of liquids and food—very efficient, very focused.

Deer.

Squirrels.

Grouse showing me the way. This way, follow us and our waddle down the path.

Raven loud raven loud and close and a loud so so deep.

Bright sun.

Getting closer (but still so far), down in the canyon tired but awed, my people surprised me on the rock ledge (relief), girls run down to meet me

I dropped the names of loved ones into the ether and walked for them. Almost no thoughts, no somersaulting of ideas, no anything. Blankness. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. It is so gorgeous up here. The hills are alive. Holy small trees. Holy rocks. Holy view. Holy holiness. Holy wind. The wind. That wind became a force and then a foe. I yanked my hat off and told it to behave. I yelled into the wind and asked if it could break a spell—can you take it and tumble it and send it away? It actually worked (more on that next week).

The truest meditation.

Utter appreciation that I have a body that can get me onto and across this ridge.

Echoes of my 30-year old self who walked this exact walk before becoming mother.

Toward the end, a large rock rolled onto my ankle and my feet started to make known their soreness. I eventually dropped off the ridge and down into the canyon that would be my exit. Quiet. Magic. Fairies. So so quiet. No more wind. Slower. I thought I was almost done (I know this trail, why does it keep going, where is the end?). Two miles to go and I started to deteriorate, feeling the rope of my ankle tendon, overuse on top of an old injury. The rest of my body was fine, but these feet ouch. No one around. But then… a mountain biker. Oh hello. It’s my friend. This small big town we live in, hey. He stops to say hi. On his way back down 30 minutes later, he checks in on me and I tell him I’m struggling.

“Doesn’t this trail end soon?” The sun was setting, the trees were getting denser. He assures me he’ll flush the bears out and away. As he zooms away, he reminds me to Take it in. Fair. I am taking it in, until my foot bangs a rock and I crumple over with a shriek and then an unknown large animal thumps out of a tree, shocked by my sound. Keep going. Reminders to myself that I’ve given birth 2x and done much harder things with this body of mine.

I am looking for the rock outcropping. That will tell me I’m almost there.

C’mon.

Where is it?

When I come around the corner, I see them.

On the rock.

My family. Two of my friends. A cow bell. They are cheering and my daughters are running down the trail toward me.

I didn’t expect this greeting.

I am overcome.

They grab my backpacks from me and Bo hands me a bundle of sage she tied together with mountain goat fur and Eula asks whether I saw any animals and Lex gives me a jar of epsom salts and Anna a bouquet of flowers from her garden and a raspberry grapefruit fizzy drink she concocted and Chris kisses me and speaks a protecting “let’s keep moving so Molly can rest her feet” and suddenly I’m swept into familiarity and love and we amble down the trail together as the sun starts to set.

There is so much to say and not say.

It was a day. It was epic and it was also normal.

I did it despite bleeding despite being in the least great “fitness shape” of my life despite multiple nights of little sleep anticipating a big approaching change (more later) and despite not being exactly as I wanted to be when doing it. I did it anyway.

My parents and a friend swooped in to help the next morning when I woke to a vibrant and pulsing body but a super swollen ankle I couldn’t stand on + a child who needed to get driven to school. Someone recently offered, “You’re great at assembling teams of support around yourself,” and she was right. I used to feel shame about that. Who am I to get support? Why does our culture at large uphold doing it alone as the best, as the most noble? Why are do we shame ourselves about what is good in our lives? Why do I? Making circles is what I do, what I have always done—in all parts of my life.

Thank you to the people, to the mountains, to the animals, and to all of you who followed along as I prepared. Next year, in spring with wildflowers and bright green, perhaps the walk again. A new layer, a new time.

Love,