When I’m hiking, it never fails that I always end up, at some point, thinking about my trail running days. I miss it, especially during cold weather.
I’m not sure if I was dedicated or crazy, but I miss running the trails at Bonita when the temps dipped below freezing. It was never too cold for me. In fact, one of my favorite memories is of finishing a long midday run on Jan. 10, 2010 with ice frozen in my beard.
That memory (and looking back at the picture) makes me lean more toward the crazy than the dedicated, but the fact of the matter is that, either way, I loved running trails.
That reality made it hard to give up distance running when my neurosurgeon advised me to do just that in 2017. The disc issues in my neck and lower back from wear and tear over the years had begun to give me problems, and he felt my running exacerbated those problems.
I was faced with a big dilemma. Running had become part of my being, and walking away from it (no pun intended) created a massive void in my life. I began hiking and backpacking to fill that gap, and perambulating local trails and section hiking the Appalachian Trail provided the challenge, the workout, and the adventure that I longed for in the absence of the 25 and 50K trail races.
The thrill of flying down a steep singletrack was certainly part of my attraction to trail running, but I think what I most loved was the wonder of exploring new terrain, seeing what lies around the next bend or over the next ridge. I also loved settling into the rhythm of the footfalls and losing myself in thought.
I’ve always been intrigued by how the mind works. Does it ever shut down? I mean, it’s even active while we sleep, although it is less affected by external stimuli.
I find that my time spent running and, now, hiking through the woods is a time of clarity and creativity for me when it comes to my thought process. Although I am constantly monitoring both the trail and my surroundings, I find it easy to get lost in thought.
In his book “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” Haruki Murakami speaks to his thought process while running. “The thoughts that occur to me while I’m running are like clouds in the sky. Clouds of all different sizes. They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky always.”
Murakami’s book is one of my favorites on the topic of running, along with Chris McDougall’s “Born to Run.” I thought about Murakami’s book while hiking around Lake Toppasha at Legion State Park this past weekend with G and our pups Birdie and Murphy (Moose opted to stay at home with Dan).
I was lost in my thoughts at one point during the hike when the idea hit me that a possible book title for my treks through the woods and wilderness could be “What I Think About When I Think About Hiking” or, better yet, simply “What I Think About When I’m Hiking.”
With that thought in mind, here are a few of the random ruminations from my wanderings last weekend.
One of the locations that captures my musings each time we hike around the lake at Legion is the spot where the remains of an old cabin stand on a ridgetop overlooking the water.
The old chimney is fully intact along with the original stone footings for the cabin. Trees have established themselves as the new tenants for the old homestead and stand, perhaps as an affront, directly in front of the aged hearth.
Nothing is permanent, I think, and I’m reminded of the words of writer Chris Dombrowski in his book “The River You Touch: Making a Life on Moving Water.” Dombrowski writes that “elementally speaking, after all, nothing has a permanent home. Some part of everything eventually abides everywhere.” The trees whose ancestors were used to build the walls of the cabin are now reclaiming their ridge.
As I stand staring into the hearth of the old stone fireplace the words of Aldo Leopold come to mind. “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.” Those who warmed themselves here knew that truth. What hands and bodies last felt this fire?
A cast iron sink with a rich patina of rust lies on the ground in the center of the cabin, its basin filled with a rich detritus of leaves and pine needles. I imagine a stubbled face looking into the mirror above the sink as the water heats. Who was the last person to wash the sleep from their eyes in the waters held here?
On the last leg of our hike, I round a bend in the trail ahead of the dogs and G and a young buck lies sunning himself on the opposite ridge. He stands slowly and shakes himself before slipping away over the ridgetop. Deer season is well underway and, no doubt, there are hunters nearby in the woodlands surrounding the park. Yet, he is safe here. I wonder if he knows?
Until next time, here’s to being lost in thought, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.
Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.