by Julie Lockhart

I step onto a forested path on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where lofty evergreen trees mingle with autumn-tinged fern fronds, wild rhododendron and huckleberry shrubs. The Mt. Walker trail gets steep within 50 feet from the parking lot. Two thousand feet up in two miles of strenuous hiking, a twenty percent grade. I focus on a solid core to support my limbs. Pain stabs my left knee in spite of the two-week reprieve after deep tissue bodywork.

It’s an argument, really. At 64, am I just too old for this kind of hike? If I keep pushing myself now, maybe I’ll be meandering in mountain landscapes into my 80s. I am nothing if not persistent.

My hiking companion, twelve years younger, chatters away about her work stresses. I am retired and delighted that I’m done with office politics. Her boss’s injustices almost keep my mind off the rigorous up, up, up. Was this hike as difficult for me last year?

Grumpy body, soaring spirit. Getting into the wilds for a hike tests my stamina, yet purifies my mind of life’s garbage and disappointments and reminds me of the beauty of creation. We reach a downward dip in the trail, maybe 100 short feet, but a relief even so. A crow calls from the canopy above. Dust from crumbling alder leaves tickles my nose. I check my GPS – halfway to the top. I’ll remember this spot on the way down.

How will my body and spirit survive when I can no longer hike? This thought startles me. My mother’s withered body at 88 was slumped in a wheelchair just months before her death, and I shudder that my fate could be similar – a tough reality. My heart pumps and sweat drips onto my hiking poles as I trudge higher on the path. I pause to breathe in the resiny scent of Douglas firs standing proud on the steep hillside and unaware of their age.

A much younger couple heads down toward us. They say it took them two and a half hours to reach the top, weaving from big tree to big tree to stop at each for a rest. I lean against the rough bark of a hemlock to stave off mild vertigo from ogling at the steep slope off the other side of the trail. We’ll be at the top after one and a half hours, about twice the time two flat miles would take. With my next step, I don’t feel as old as I fear. I remind myself to treasure all opportunities to experience nature’s exquisite tapestry.

We reach the top. My heaving chest relaxes, easy walking on welcome flat ground. The north summit’s view of the cobalt Hood Canal below and the craggy alpine slopes of the Olympic National Park off to the west is our reward. We walk the half mile through more forest to the south summit to appreciate Seattle’s tall buildings and the surrounding islands. Mount Rainier and the North Cascades reach for the clouds in the distance. My stomach growls, so we find a log in the shade on this unseasonable warm October day. I wonder how old the tree was when it fell to create this sturdy seat. Under the forest’s shelter, we munch on prosciutto with crackers, chewy dates, crisp green grapes and salted dark chocolate. A soft breeze blows away the sweat on my face.

Spaghetti legs dominate the trip down as we take slow steps to keep from slipping. By the time we reach the halfway dip, my legs quiver, my left knee aches. I feel weak, sweating as much as I did on the climb uphill, though I can better view the steepness of the terrain from this downward perspective. Douglas fir, cedar and hemlock point to peaceful puffy clouds while their roots clutch the plunging forest floor.

As we hobble to the car, I am proud like the aging trees reaching for the sky through the decades. We gobble snacks and guzzle water. Within ten minutes, my legs stop vibrating and I can drive home. I’ll limp around with sore calves and thighs for several days, but feel exhilarated from the feat and more prepared for whatever foray in nature is next. The up and down of adventures in wild places, the up and down of my fears of getting older — all part of the journey.

Image by Vlada Karpovich via Pexels