Clarity comes in strange ways. The first year of the pandemic, 2020, forced me to stay home, away from people and let me settle into myself. I couldn’t travel as I usually do. I still hiked and even hiked a good distance that summer. I hiked solo and met few hikers. Solo hiking let me connect to nature in a deeper way.
At home, I noticed what was happening to women around me. I saw women my age in isolation have health problems and being fearful of their future. People with friends were less isolated, and their aging related problems seemed to be delayed. Good, I thought, I have friends, I’ll be okay. I noticed that when people’s health declined, friends didn’t offer ongoing support. Family’d arrive and move the woman into a new home closer to family, into a nursing home or worse, hospice.
I’m a realistic person, not afraid of looking truth in the eye. During my 36 years of living in Ashland, I’ve seen friends come and go. My activities are the driver of my connections. I say, every passion of mine produces one long-term friend and a bunch of temporary friends. But long term friends move as well, or their focus shifts to other things. A yearly get-together among old time friends is fun, but doesn’t offer support for serious aging issues.
I considered my family. Family far away in another country, children far flung in the US. Will they come and rescue me when needed? They will. Shall I wait and burden them in five to ten years?
During that pandemic year 2020, I missed my youngest daughter, who had moved to a new place just the prior year. I took a risk flying to New Mexico while Covid was raging. She and her husband shared their back-to-the land plans and invited me to live with them if I wanted. I cried. It’s rare a 73-year old gets invited to join a community. Even though I was deeply touched, I wasn’t ready. We thought it’d take at least 5 years before I’d consider.
Forward to summer 2021. Vaccinated, I planned to hit the trail and complete another section of the PCT. Maybe I could finish the 450 miles still left to hike. Drought and heat ruled during the summer of 2021; the desert was super dry and we hauled water for long stretches. Temps at home rose over 110F. Wild fires erupted everywhere on the West Coast. The garden suffered. The dry heat even stunted the growth of the tomatoes. Everything had to grow under shade cloth. I didn’t want to spend my old-age summers in such heat. I’d look for the best next place to live near a child of mine.
A Sense of Place
After visiting my kids in the Bay Area and on the East Coast, I landed again in Taos in July. 89F Temps warmed me at midday; afternoon monsoon rains with incredible sky displays over the mesa refreshed the air for dinner on the porch. We took alpine hikes at 10,000 ft, where wildflowers were abundant. My favorite summer flower, hollyhocks, grew wild everywhere in the Taos valley. I knew, I would thrive here.
I told my children that it was time for me to move and that I’d start the move to Taos after I’d finished the PCT in August. August came; the Caldor fire broke out and pushed me off the trail. A trip to Holland to walk and attend my brother’s late-life marriage happened instead.
Pregnant with a Move
On my return home, I rested and made my plan. The housing market in Taos was tight, a seller’s market, but so it was In Ashland. I flew to Taos to see what I could find. At first glance, nothing interested was listed. Earlier I made my 10-point list of things important in my new home; things that made me happy and smile. #1 Was an inspiring view. #2 Was location and walkability for daily needs. I’d searched for a week. When I stood on the porch of a small Pueblo style home surrounded by sage brush, I watched the sky put on a late afternoon light show that was awe inspiring. My heart jumped. I knew this view would enliven me and fuel my creativity, encourage my daring with nature, and pull me to the trail again and again. I asked questions and did my due diligence, checking everything on my list. At the end of my week’s stay, I made an offer on my new home. I was pregnant with a move!
I wanted a winter to let things unfold. Lucky for me, escrow in Taos takes at least 4-month due to lack of title companies and Covid lay-offs. I had time to be pregnant with the move. I could do my shedding and selling at an easy pace in Ashland.
The last Trimester
I’ve entered my last trimester before this new birthing in my life. When escrow closes on the Taos house in March, 9 months will have passed since I decided i'd move that day in July. What started as an idea is becoming reality. I’m putting one foot in front of the other as I solve one problem after another. The skills and resilience I’ve developed in long distance hiking have helped me. Many aspects of a long distance hike — such as figuring out logistics, developing trust things will work out, working hard during the difficult stretches, knowing when to take a zero day, getting support crew lined up by using trail angels — are similar when preparing for a big move. It takes stamina, resilience and trust.
Resilience, Stamina and Trust
If you’re a hiker and are thinking of doing long distance hiking, you will not only discover new worlds outside yourself when you get out there, you will discover and build resilience, stamina and trust inside yourself while you’re hiking. Distance hiking will help you in your decisions about the next phase of your life. Let the trail teach you!
I’m on a big journey. Moving from a place where I’ve raised a family to an unknown place by myself, is transformation in the big league. A place “as far away from America, as you can get in America”, my son-in-law says. 36 Years ago I arrived in Ashland with a husband, a 2-month-old baby girl, a 2-year-old daughter and a 9-year-old son. We had no money to speak of, so we bought the cheapest house available in town. It was the 80ties recession, and we got a mortgage at 11.7%! During our life here, we built another house and owned commercial property. Nothing spoke “home” like this place, though. This house grew with us as our family's needs changed. And I’m now selling this completely transformed house.
A NEW PHASE
My needs are changing. The children have grown. They’ve moved away and have families of their own. I buried my husband 11 years ago. In this place, I grieved and learned to live on my own. Because there was no WE and OURS anymore, I remodeled the house to make it mine. I planted a peony bush on my husband’s ashes in the backyard. Each spring, the peonies make me smile and I realize that love endures even after death. I embarked on travel adventures, took up rowing and long-distance hiking. After retiring from my day job, I became a published author. I lived my life and found happiness again.
Though I am blessed with strength and good health, my aging body tells me it’s time to live near those who care for me beyond friendship, beyond adventures, beyond inspiration. I’m moving to another state; it’s a place so different, it may as well be another country. From green forested hills to high desert mesa with the Rocky Mountains in the distance. My youngest daughter and her husband are establishing a “back-to-the-land” community. I will have a role there. My presence will matter; They welcome my life experience and talents and I can take part to the degree I’m able as I age.
SHEDDING A LIFE
Moving is one of the known major stressors one can encounter in life, on par with childbirth, marriage, divorce, career change. I’m making the journey from one home base to a new one. Each day, since I decided to move in July, I’m engaged in taking steps toward my goal. Like during a pregnancy, I experience feelings, anxieties, and excitement. My sleep is affected, my body aches when I move boxes and stuff. Instead of growing a baby inside me, I’m shedding the skin of a householder life. Memorabilia, kids’ toys, kids’ artwork, books, excess bedding, kitchenware, furniture, you name it, I’m Marie Kondoing it! I no longer need to house and sleep kids, when they come home; I no longer host groups, bake and cook for an army, organize neighborhood support groups, tend a family garden. The pandemic forced a transformation and catapulted me into being more singular; satisfied with my own company, and not in need of big entertainment. I’m desiring a simple life.
LIVING WITH MEANING
I want inner explorations; meditation, artistic expression. I want time to go slow and not be burdened by to-do’s. I want to do what has meaning to me, not what life demands of me. A small home, a small easy-to-manage garden, one bathroom will do; a living room for three visitors instead of seven.
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“It is time to re-imagine how life is organized on Earth. We’re accelerating into a future shaped less by countries than by connectivity. Mankind has a new maxim – Connectivity is destiny – and the most connected powers, and people, will win.”
— Parag Khanna
'Tis the season for celebrations. The season for connecting with family and friends. Does that mean we should drink more, eat more, shop more, ship more, and have more fun? Two years of pandemic living means w’re ready for a break from restrictions and isolation. In our isolation we’ve had two years to re-imagine what’s important and how we want to live. This season gives us the opportunity for redressing how we connect and express our love.
A Simple Holiday
We created our own version of the holiday season when my children were young. Every evening in December, we paused, read a seasonal story while the children opened a tiny gift from an advent calendar. Young children live in the moment, and can appreciate the simplest things. Societal traditions soon take them out of that coveted state and open up their awareness of “wishing” and “getting”. For a believer-child the North Pole provides. The adults fall into the hole of Black-Friday-shopping and make imaginations come true.
My children became consumer-aware. Even though we tried to stem the tide of “stuff” coming into our home, the expressions of love from friends and relatives created a pile of gifts under the tree that surprised as every year. The old-fashioned, cozy, one-day holiday celebration with minimal gifts was a thing for sentimental movies we watched amidst piles of newly-acquired toys, clothes, electronics and candy.
From Digital world to Consumption
My children came of age in the digital age. Born and living in the country, they lived without electricity, computers and TV screens in their junior years. We postponed their participation in that digital world as long as we could without harming their educational progress and social life. In the eighties, we moved to a small town. Once there, we lost the battle against screen-time and digital immersion.
I’ve brought one genX-er and two millennials into a world stifled by consumption. They must make the best of it. And they do, at least for the holidays. They limit screen time for their children; they ask to keep gift giving small. Sending gifts back and forth across the country doesn’t make ecological sense for us any longer. Over-consumption and the resulting climate change, forces us to turn to an oldfashioned seasonal celebration. We put up a few lights and decorations to cheer up the gloomy, dark days of winter. We bake traditional specialty foods to enjoy with a small circle of friends or family.
I use the holiday time for reflection on another year passing. At this time I count my blessings. My blessings are gifts that keep on giving. I have a loving family and circle of friends I can turn to in time of need. I live near the natural world which gives me magical surprises in my garden and on my hiking adventures. I enjoy good health, which allows me to live with joy. And yes, I must admit, one blessing is I have access to entertainment at the flick of a finger.
For some people losses because of Covid and climate have created big changes. The holiday season isn’t a balm on the wound when you’ve lost a parent or a child; when your house burned down, or the water swept away your possessions. Rather, the season becomes a smarting wound.
Gifts that Keep on Giving
The best gift we can give each other in trying times is the gift of hope. Hope that comes from action. Action that warms a heart, that reduces our carbon footprint, that helps someone get over their fear of vaccination. We must shrink our economy if we want the world to survive. We must do with less stuff. We must drive less, fly less, move less stuff across the world until we’ve instated a non-polluting system. Vote with your dollars, create a connective world around you. Give gifts that keep on giving and inspiring others and spend time with those who need your loving attention. Happy Holidays.
Simple gift: books are on sale for the holidays: 2FOR22. Click here
The wrathful deities of Tibetan Buddhism help protect the people from evil. These deities look like ghouls and ghastly figures drifting along the streets on Halloween. As the holidays are upon us, the world’s leaders at the climate conference in Glasgow gather to help solve the climate mess. I feel quite removed from this conference where decisions for the planet’s survival must be made. Maybe you can muster up some cynicism over political optics, but most likely you’ve had it by now with promises that aren’t kept. Greta Thunberg will not sway the big greedy companies that run the world. The world leaders are not our protectors.
Interestingly enough, just as Halloween isn’t a politicized holiday (ghouls aren’t Republican or Democratic yet), we can also agree across the political divide that climate change, real or not, will not be solved by you or me.
So why bring it up? In a prior blog I’ve written how we can do our minor part in terms of “reduce, re-use and recycle”; but unless everyone in the world comes on board, that approach won’t make a real difference. And when was the last time everyone in the world came together around an issue? Even the pandemic hasn’t brought people together. That’s just it. With all the talk of community building in America, we are more divided than ever in our enclaves that stick to stuck perspectives, and hate the other enclave. Sounds like high school all over again? The US is an adolescent society, a young country with very little experience in making it through hard times together. We are people rooted in rugged individualism who can do hard stuff, but building unity isn’t one of them. And if we build communities, they tend to be temporary, because people pull up stakes, change jobs, move across the country, start anew, try something they haven’t done before. The USA is a country of starting new things, not fixing what’s broken. We haven’t found what sticks and works for us as a whole.
When I think about community, be they friends or family, or both, I think about caring for one another, keeping each other safe. I think about creating opportunities for growth and offering new perspectives. I think about sharing love and enjoyment of life. I think about joining in activities that promote health. These communities don’t pull guns on others, they talk to each other. These communities don’t ignore each other when there’s a need. They help. These communities don’t tear each other apart with their criticism, they share their joys and successes and invite others to be a part.
What has happened to our news media, our politicians, our leaders? Has greed and hatred poisoned the shared well, called Earth? Are they having their talks in Glasgow to pretend that the Earth can be saved, as they’re extracting goods as fast as they can while there’s still a profit to be made? I feel minuscule next to the corporate and political forces. And so I go out and get lost in the wide open spaces where the sky is blue and fresh; I climb in the mountains where the trees are doing their fall beauty dance; I take others on the trails where we share our joy and move in unison while bettering our health. I walk with women from different walks of life. We connect, we share our love of nature. We encourage each other to walk the extra mile. We help each other feel our vitality.
My grandson started kindergarten this fall. A big change after 18 months of pandemic home schooling. I asked him what he liked about school. His answer: “I have so many friends!” Easy, pease, 4 weeks in school and he has a large group of friends! I’m glad he values friends more than anything, while in school.
Humans hanker for community. Look at the string of holidays that are here, starting with Halloween. Holidays that bring people together. I’m sure there are people in Glasgow who want the best for the world, but fear, inflexibility, lack of trust, and “me-first” drive them away from maintaining a wholesome world community.
So, it’s up to you and me and the wrathful deities to do the best we can by building life-enhancing communities. Talk to people you meet, care for the downtrodden on your path, pay attention and share the beauty and wealth you’re blessed with in your life. Avoid and correct critical hateful speech, any speech that creates an us and them, that puts down the “other”. Teach your children and grandchildren, and the world will become a better place. Happy Halloween!
Comments and sharing are appreciated!
The last time I wrote a blog, wildfire smoke was obscuring the sky and depressive feelings were gnawing on my brain. As always, things change. I escaped for 3 weeks to a green country with blue skies and now that I’m back on the West Coast, fall arrived with blessed rain. The air is clean. Between rains, the golden sunlight streaks over the dried grasses on the hills. The garden harvest of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and other summer specials is abundant and a cool wind touches my face on morning hikes in the hills. All’s well in my world, as I sit to write with a last red rose from the garden on my desk, perfuming the air and delighting my eyes. Outside rain clouds, hesitant all morning, are dropping their wet load. What will fall bring us?
A respite from wildfires, for sure. A reduction in Covid-19 cases? Maybe. A 2-month-long peak of hospitalizations in my county is declining; elsewhere new upticks of Covid-cases get recorded every day. We have to live with and keep this virus under control as best we can. Will we get a sensible infrastructure bill through Congress? A social services bill? Will the immigration crisis at the border wax and wane like the pandemic? Will the summer hurricanes and tornadoes make room for extreme winter weather? Will the reduction of natural gas output in Europe tighten our energy consumption across the world?
So many questions, so few answers. We must live life to learn the answers. We must keep going; live through the fallout of our mistakes to learn what works and what doesn’t. “We’re all in this together”, is the motto of politicians and world leaders. Do we live by that credo? Do you? Am I?
I walked this summer in vastly different places: desert, high mountains, blooming moors and wet lowlands. The basics of walking the trail were the same wherever I was: carry your load, find water and food, carry water and food, find shelter for the night. A simple life I shared with those who are migrating, walking away from climate extremes, bad political situations, or to join family in far-flung places. There was a time when people migrated across this world. They didn’t run into borders. Insurmountable mountains or wide oceans were the only things halting them. People traveled along rivers, through valleys and across plains. Essentially we are all nomads. A recent discovery of footprints in New Mexico (click for article) points to early migrants coming to the Americas, earlier than scientist had known.
As I walked all summer, I felt happy when my legs were moving and the vistas unfolded around me. I felt happy when I curled up in my small shelter for the night, my belly sufficiently full. I moved my DNA as one author (Katy Bowman) calls it.
When I read about Haitians (click for article) coming from Chile, crossing mountains in Equador and Columbia, 45 mile wide tropical swamps in Panama, to get away from racism and find a better life in the US, I can only relate to the tip of their mountain of pain and effort that goes into such a journey. My 300 mile journey on the PCT had difficulties for sure, but I had calculated these difficulties. I knew what elevations were ahead of me, how much water to carry to the next water stop. Haitians don’t have a Guthook App on their phone to tell them how much farther it is or how high the next mountain will be. I had to maneuver around a trepidatiously balanced rock blocking the trail, but there was a side trail if I couldn’t make it around the rock. I always had my trusted Garmin-Mini device dangling off my pack. One push of the SOS button and Search And Rescue teams with helicopters would come into action. The closest I came to real danger was in Desolation Wilderness near Lake Tahoe, when the wildfires nearby flared up and caused a heavy smoke obscuring the landscape. We hustled to walk in the opposite direction, back to a road, and a ride to a safe home to re-group. I imagine once you start a journey from Chile, there’s no going back to the danger you left behind, just like there was no going forward toward the danger on our smoky trail.
I walked in the east of the Netherlands where villages perch on hillocks, 36 ft above sea level, not the -6 ft (!!) below sealevel of the paths I crossed through the fields. I walked across dunes and dykes that protect villages from the storm tides coming in from the North Sea. After being inundated by water (the last time this happened was 1953), people returned and built better, bigger dykes. The Dutch are feverishly reinforcing dykes and creating flood plains as they await the rising sea level that will come with climate change.
For the migrants of the world, there’s no going back to where they came from. They have to keep going toward something better. The determination and hard work migrants display comes out of desperation. A desperation I only touch on when a fierce 45-mile-an-hour wind blows across the sandy desert, forcing me to buckle down and keep walking the 5 miles that will lead to shelter.
How do you migrate away from climate change, from corrupt government, from racism, from poverty and hunger? Some gather their few possessions and start walking. Others remain in place because they don’t have the means, the strength or wherewithal to walk away. After a summer of hiking and walking, I can sit in my home with the sky cleared from smoke and smell the roses. Humans talk themselves into comfort. The wildfires, floods, hurricanes and storms will be back. Racism and corruption will continue. Will you build bigger “dykes”, fight harder to resist the inequities, or will you start walking?
YouTubes of summer hikes are posted on WW50plus page
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I’m pretending the grey sky outside is winter fog and being holed up inside with my writing activities can be pleasant, but my nose recognizes the unmistakable smell of smoke, my ears listen to the whirring of my air purifier, and the AC is working overtime to keep the heat to a desirable 75F. My body feels tired despite the many hours I spent sleeping or just being in bed to escape the reality of an AQI in the hazardous zone. Maybe I am experiencing what the birds (click for link) in the southwest are, a lethargy that sets in before dying.
I’m not a bird; I have options. I work out in my workout room with the AC on full blast to give myself a temporary respite from the depression that’s creeping up on me. And it’s only been 4 days for me! Others have suffered longer, and won’t see the wild fires ending for awhile. I play the climate refugee card and prepare for getting away to another part of the world where the air quality is still in the green zone and I can walk outside without harming my health.
I’m a walker. Walking is my go-to mental health boost. If I can’t walk at home, I have to go elsewhere. The smoke from West Coast fires have forced me off the trail and cut short my long distance hiking for the summer. Not easily deterred, I will walk the distance elsewhere.
I (We) are in a battle with climate. A battle of our own making; made by those who’ve gone before us and ignored the warning signs. The ones who choose profits over preferences, gluttony over gratitude, and put callousness before caution.
I’ve saved, recycled, reduced, re-used. During the last 30 years, I’ve supported and used organic farming methods. My car is a low-emission, energy conserving vehicle. Walking is my preferred mode of transportation. I upped the insulation in the walls and attic of my house. I hand the barista a reusable cup for my drinks when I’m in a coffee/tea shop. I turn the thermostat in my house down and wear an extra wool sweater in the winter. My bathrooms have low-flush toilets. I take quick showers every third day. It is not enough.
I’ve voted, protested, and taught my children to conserve. It is not enough.
Heat waves consume the world. Fires erupt everywhere, even in the Arctic. Incessant rain turns to floods. I send messages to Congress. It is not enough.
The latest UN Climate report came out on Aug 9, 2021. Reports don’t change the reality of climate change in progress. People reaching out to each other, do. You’ll notice a force is gathering if you read beyond the headlines and follow the stories. Climate finance injects moneys into struggling economies. Following are some examples of projects happening around the globe:
In desperately poor areas of Somaliland dams and water points have improved food security and hygiene, and sustained livelihoods.
Egypt is protecting its Nile delta, home to a quarter of its population and half of its economic activity.
Jamaica is building seawalls with climate finance to secure its drinking water
Cambodia developed solar energy and reduced electricity costs by two-thirds.
Nepal, a less developed country, has drawn on international finance to improve disaster preparedness, scale-up climate smart agriculture, pioneer ecosystem-based solutions through community forest restoration and set goals for carbon-neutral tourist destinations by 2030.
I can continue listing examples but my point is, a force is gathering. Can we, the developed nations, forego our selfishness and reach out to save the planet?
I have hope that we can. Holding hands among nations is contagious, a good contagion. Holding hands with neighbors to make necessary changes can give us a sense of purpose and power we all need. Share what you do to make a difference with others:
1. Bottles to save water. Maybe you will put a bottle of water in your toilet tank to reduce water use. Maybe you can give others bottles to put in their tanks.
2. Surplus to Food banks. Maybe you can share your extra vegetables with the local food bank and feed the hungry in your community.
3. Pencils and paper for students. Maybe you can encourage your children and grandchildren to reduce their consumption as they go back to school. Donate to children who can’t buy the basics.
WE can be part of the gathering force. I feel better just writing this blog instead of staring at the smoke outside. Walk Your Talk, Turn the Tide, and Put your Heart into the battle against Climate Change. The birds will thank you.
I hiked twenty miles with four liters of water, weighing 10.8 lb, in my backpack. The desert stared at me with its prickly smile, its flashy neon blooms, its fringy gray-green sage leaves rustling against aged, twisted woody stalks. Where was its water? How did these living things quench their thirst? Roots in sandy soil, porous, absorbing every drop of dew, spread out to hold on against drying winds searing over the landscape. I pulled my buff over my mouth to protect my cracked lips, tightened my hat deeper over my face.
The desert has always intimidated me. I come from temperate, cool climates. I don’t do “heat” well. I’m white, blond, thin skinned and succumb easily to heat exhaustion.
Temperatures were moderate when I hiked the desert. I hiked to learn, to observe, and embrace these ever increasing dry zones on our planet. If climate change is any indication of what’s to come, I may have to learn to live in the desert soon. The Armageddon of heat, drought and fire seems to be here on the west coast of America.
As I hiked, I pondered why we have deserts on this earth. An earth that can be lush, and green, with tall trees providing shade; where bubbling brooks lap at shores, and nurse the plant roots to make thickets along its banks. Where wide rivers flood the land and enrich the soil for next year’s growth. Why the deserts?
The simple explanation is: water evaporates where the sun is closest to the earth. The water is stored in clouds high above the earth. Winds caused by pressure differentials move the clouds toward a less hot area, and rain falls, creating lush forests next to deserts.
While I hiked 2400 miles of the PCT between Mexico and Canada over the last eight years, I have seen what we’ve done to our forests. I’ve walked through old-growth forest, clear-cut forest areas, mono-culture forests, diseased forests and burned forests. Just in the years I’ve walked, I’ve seen the loss of forests and I know, we don’t have time left. We need to turn the tide of loss of habitat now, or there will be more desert.
Water is life
As I hiked this time, I pondered living in the desert. I saw the plots of land, given away for minor sums of money to those who can survive on the land for 5 years. I saw the abandoned shacks and mobile homes, rusted out, plastic window coverings flapping in the hot wind, as nearby tv-disks stared empty at the sky. Without water, people can’t make it.
Stories of old tell how prophets come out of the desert. The shamans, the chosen ones, the future spiritual leaders roamed in these empty lands; they had “visions” and gained insight before returning to society to teach. I imagine hallucinations come easy under a scorching sun. You can lose your mind in the heat if you’re not careful. You must find water to survive.
I left the world of comfort, food and plenty of water behind and entered the vast stretches of sage brush, chaparral, rock and sand to test my stamina and find empty mind as I walked the miles. Who wins in the desert? The tough ones or the lucky?
Grains of sand
I was lucky. The weather was favorable. Trail angels brought me food and water; my body was strong enough to walk the sandy trail. I found relief in the shade during the hottest parts of the day; my empty mind experienced awe and wonder as surprise beautiful blooms broke the monotony of sand and sage. A full moon shone pink on the landscape. Even though I went for 5 days without water for washing, I was never thirsty. Water became my measurement for energy, not for cleanliness. Grains of sand in my ears, my nose, my shoes became the story of earth I want to save.
The average temperatures of the Northern hemisphere (Europe, North America, parts of Asia) have been much higher since 1950 than in any 50-year period in the last 500 years.
Indeed, almost all the zones surrounding current deserts are at risk. In the next decades these zones will become more and more arid, or worse, turn into deserts too.
Changing habits to save habitats
Back in the world of relative comfort and (still) plenty of water coming out of the tap, I pause when I wash, drink and water my garden. How much longer?
I want to use the insight I gained in the desert. Water shortages are a reality in many areas of the world. We can learn from others who have solved water shortages. Namibia’s capital turns wastewater into drinking water. Israel gets 55% of its domestic water from desalination plants. What will we do where I live?
My hike in the desert reminded me and taught me again that we need to change our ways if we want this planet to be inhabitable for future generations. I must reduce my water usage and change my habits. It starts with turning off the tap as I wash my hands, mulching my garden, and taking fewer showers. I will revisit and review my assumptions about cleanliness, without giving up health practices. On the trail I was fine with 3 1/2 L of water a day and an occasional bath and clothes’ washing. Compare that with 80-100 gallons a day, the average person uses living indoors! We must reduce our energy consumption to reduce the rise in temperatures and stop the deserts from spreading. Governments will not reverse the heating of the planet, our individual behaviors will. Join me and walk more, use less water, eat locally and tell your neighbor.
The sandy trail stretches itself out in front of me up the exposed ridge, a dusty carpet rolled out. At each turn, the narrow switchbacks lure me into thinking a flat stretch awaits me. Not so, each turn means another 50-100 feet elevation gain. I’m glad it’s early morning, my can-do enthusiasm still high, the breeze cool because the pack load with 4 liters of water isn’t getting any lighter. I marvel at the weight distribution of these light backpacks. The weight doesn’t pull me back or push me down, once I hoist the pack on my back and tighten the straps in just the right places; I can walk upright, I can lift my legs without struggling. I can do this despite my age!!
Hiking this first section of the season is my self-appointed job: I must hike day in, day out, with a rest day once a week. I rise early in the morning, let the caffeine do its wake-up work, and start on the day’s task. I must hike another 12-14 miles up and down, and through a desert landscape, mountainous, tree-covered sometimes, but mostly sage or chaparral covered, bone-dry, rocky ground. The edge of the wind-blown Mohave desert where I hiked its flatland 2 years ago, is to the east, Bakersfield and the hot Central Valley of California to the west.
If I succeed, I can fill in the sections I have missed to connect the PCT-line on the map into one long trail I will have hiked mile after mile. Age is playing its part. How much longer will my body tolerate this strenuous activity? When will I slow down so much that the daily mileage becomes impossibly little, and I must carry too much food, and too much water, to cover the distance between re-supplies?
A South Carolina young hiker tells me he thinks the chaparral covered mountains are beautiful. I tell him it’s relative; just wait till you get to the high Sierras for jaw-dropping beauty. I’m spoiled with the vistas I have seen, the mountains I have climbed. This stretch is more of a daily hum-drum; a job to get done.
I do enjoy the walking. As I let my body find its rhythm, the legs do their DNA imprinted work. I’m in awe of my body’s resilience, the lack of pain, the ease with which I fall into this daily effort. My thoughts recede, my eyes absorb the world around me, my brain remembers names of flowers and bushes, my being dissipates into the wide open distances with range after range of mountains resting on the earth, waiting for me to come to them and stand in the high places, find the water sources, scour for a flat place to pitch my tent. When the birds start singing at 4:45 AM, I never wake up thinking “I don’t want to do this today” or “I want to stay in bed”. I become part of this natural world; my body responds to light and sound and wants to move, relieve itself, drink, eat and see what the day will bring. The deep inner drive to find food and water, to scour the environment for shelter is the essence of a nomadic life. A life in which survival is the thing that counts. Of course on this trek I don’t have to find food, but I do have to keep moving to find water sources, move to find safe shelter for the night, away from gusty winds or a bright moon. When we live in one place, in a home, the inner drive to move becomes muted. Only a social need to connect moves us about. We may have an inner voice that tells us we need exercise to stay healthy.
These last 8 years I gave up home and hearth for periods of time, to explore the effects of living and moving on the wilderness trail, away from convenience stores, chairs, beds, readily available water spigots, electric lights, screen entertainment and artificial waking and sleeping schedules.
I’ve found my connectedness in nature, my health, my contentedness, my confidence. I’ve learned that doing with less, eating less, moving more is a formula for happiness. I haven’t made the wilderness trail my permanent way of life. I watch the through-hikers pass me by with the 5-month-long view in their eyes, the sense of newness, ownership over their lives in their voices. And yet, they too return to the daily world of cars, jobs, noise pollution, light pollution, and stress to carve out a living that satisfies.
We can learn from our experiences; distill the essence, and apply our new knowledge in the life that follows. When I come home, I keep moving daily. I find places to hike, away from noise and light pollution. I listen to my body’s food needs and try to change my bodyweight set-point to a lighter, healthier number. I find alternatives for chair sitting and sit on the floor more.
Spending 3 weeks in the outback has given me a shot in the arm. I’m vaccinated against the onslaught of society’s disabling habits. Will I get the disease? Yes, but not as severe. Will I succumb to easy temptations? Of course, but not for long. Another section is waiting for me. I will explore again as long as my body lets me.
“To damage the earth is to damage your children”, Wendell Berry, farmer and poet
Thousands are crossing the border in boats across a river into Southern Mexico. The shuttlers drop them off under cover of the jungle to avoid Mexican border patrol. The people scurry in small groups through the green and start their 100 mile walk to a place where they’ve been told there will be a shelter; a shelter that will receive them and where they can get help to travel North to the United States to find work and safety. Single young adults, without certainty, walk not knowing where their water and food will come from, while carrying their meager belongings in small backpacks. Many have a contact in the United States on their phone, that promised them a job once they get there. They nurse their blisters; they tighten their belt when hungry; they wait for the dark of night to travel. Hardship born out of trauma, poverty, and an economy based on corruption.
At the same time, thousands of young adults are setting out on their first 100 miles from the Mexican border going North on the Pacific Crest Trail. They are following a well-marked trail; they form small groups, called ‘tramilies’ (trail families) as they make their way North. Their goal is the Canadian border. They are taking a break from the safety and comfort of their everyday lives. They are taking a break from the stress of modern living to get to know themselves better. Many of them won’t get past the first 100 miles. They find out they aren’t cut out for dealing with the daily grind of walking miles, nursing blisters, fighting tiredness, monotony and uncertainty. Those who make it past the first 100 miles find a new connection to themselves, nature, the wide vistas, and the challenge the trail gives them. They carry their shelter on their back; they use an app on their phone that tells them where they can find the next camping spot, the next water, the next place to re-supply. Self imposed hardship with an edge of privilege.
For the last 9 years, I have joined hundreds of such hikers to walk sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. A hundred miles, two hundred to four hundred miles at a time. I left the comfort of home to test my endurance, to find my belonging, and to give myself a new perspective on living. Each year, it rewarded me with new insights, peace of mind, and a healthier body. On and off trail I met people who shared what they had with me; I found new enduring friendships; I learned friends are everywhere I walk and that trail angels do exist. I had a job that gave me paid time off to explore the wilderness and allowed me to come back to the certainty a steady income provides. You can say I have led a privileged life, to be able to walk in safety, with enough money to take care of my needs. My yearly treks continued into retirement.
I came to this country in my early twenties, legally, on a green card. The sponsorship and protection of an American family made this possible. I didn’t have money. My enthusiasm, my adventuresomeness, my educated brain and willingness to work is what I brought. I had what so many young adults from Middle America are attempting to get: legal entry, safety, and protection.
Rhyme nor reason governs the political patterns that affect immigrant lives. Climate change and an ever increasing world population does. Historically, countries have been able to control the influx of people pouring in from other countries by setting up check-points, requiring visas and immigration applications. Desperation makes people circumvent the official entry points. In the countries affected by floods, droughts, war and poverty, a sense of Armageddon, the end of days, causes people to make desperate moves. Walking a 100 miles for a chance of reaching safety doesn’t seem so bad in the face of violence, sex trafficking, lack of food and shelter.
Can the “haves” share? Does this vast country have room for more people, more workers willing to do (slave) labor for minimum wage in exchange for stability in their life? Of course there’s room. Will there be an end to the stream of economic, climate and war refugees? Not likely. Until the pendulum swings and we treat the world as our home and not as a collection of separate, good or bad countries we may or may not call home, we will have people trying to cross our borders. It isn’t only our attitude we’ll have to change. We need to reduce, reuse and share, so there will be enough for everyone; so that the atmosphere can produce healthy air; so water will be a life giving commodity again. As people born into privilege, into a society that protects our rights, we must share this privilege with others who are not so lucky. Earth Day isn’t one day in April, Earth Day is every day. Give back to the earth as much as you can. Share the earth with others.
If you enjoy these blogs, check out my books: "Fly Free, a memoir of love, loss and walking the path" and "Walking Gone Wild, how to lose your age on the trail"
March in Southern Oregon brings us a smorgasbord of weather. Snow, rain, hail, sun and wind vie for a place in the line-up of days. I’m a gardener. I know to plant seeds in little pots and get the little plants growing indoors. Soon, the sun will win out. I want my plants to grow while the air is still cool.
As I’m taking stock of my seed supply, gathered last summer, I ask myself, “am I ready for the new season?”. Have I ‘wintered’ enough? Have the kernels of fresh energy gathered themselves inside me? I’ve been dreaming of long stretches on the summer trail. I take stock of what my body can do.
Dreaming comes easy. Pandemic uncertainties, doubts in my body’s strength, questions of ‘why do it’, and the slow, but insidious developing hallmarks of aging, weigh on my wish to make my dream a reality.
I’ve used winter for hibernating, writing story, meditating, and exploring the meaning of things. I’ve stayed active snowshoeing and skiing, enjoying winter’s wonderland. I’ve found wonder, gratefulness and deep enjoyment in living in this place. I’ve felt relieved that the political world has swung toward sanity and the news has become reports of getting important things done, not embarrassing conspiracy theories. The days are lengthening. Still, I’m not champing at the bit to get out of isolation. I’m not eager to walk all day carrying a pack. I sense a heaviness, an undercurrent of sadness in the world we’re carrying forward. So many deaths, so much disparity in income, so much racial tension. As spring approaches, vaccinations ramp up, relief checks are mailed. “Help is on the way”, Biden says. But is it?
Staring down the Worst
Katherine May, in her book, “Wintering, the power of rest and retreat in difficult times” (Nov 2020), says: “[Since childhood] we are taught to ignore sadness, to stuff it down into our satchels and pretend it isn’t there. As adults, we often have to learn to hear the clarity of its call. That is wintering. It is the active acceptance of sadness. It is the practice of allowing ourselves to feel it as a need. It is the courage to stare down the worst parts of our experience and to commit to healing them the best we can. Wintering is a moment of intuition, our true needs felt keenly as a knife.”
When All will NOT be Well
This year’s transition into the new season is showing me contrasts: daffodils in the snow, new life in the vernal pools; and yet, the ground is too dry. The season of fresh growth bursting into life will be short. The sun will dry out the earth announcing another fire season.
I won’t get lulled into the hope that “all will be well”. I’m staring down the worst of last year’s experience in my garden. The growing season for the cool-loving plants is getting shorter. I now have shade cloth waiting for most of my garden beds. My life experience tells me we’re entering a (short) spring season, politically speaking; the drought season will follow the first 100 days of Biden being in office. The filibusters, the competition among powers, will take over and destroy a growing climate of getting novel, forward-thinking legislation done. Corporations are the shade cloths of the political garden. They will tackle climate change, as long as they can make it profitable. The sad thing in our world is that profit rules.
Growth is not Linear
Another 4 years and only 100 days of effective governing. Like the incoming spring bursts with fresh growth, economic growth is palpable as well. But the erratic weather patterns across the country, both climatic and political, are the heralds of power gone awry. Growth is no longer linear. As the forces of government battle each other, growth is a start-and-stop movement - with much time spent in dormancy -.
Again Katherine May reflects my sentiment when she says: “We are in the habit of imagining our lives to be linear, a long march from birth to death in which we mass our powers, only to surrender them again, all the while slowly losing our youthful beauty. This is a brutal untruth. Life meanders like a path through the woods. We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.”
It makes me sad to realize a straight line out of poverty, homelessness or disparity, toward equality, compassion and equal distribution, won’t happen. The path meanders, makes a loop, or presents an insurmountable cliff. Nature will always be my teacher. I will hike a long trail this summer; I will make peace with the stops-and-starts of the seasons.
My aging isn’t linear. When the sun warms me and the wild winds of spring blow through my hair, a youthful bounce energizes my step. I will be ready for another lap around the season’s track.