Mountain climbing

Memories of hiking

I lived in Vancouver from 1994 to 1997. It was my first real job after university, I had an income for the first time after 8 years of schooling and I started doing outdoorsy things, when I had never been much of an outdoorsy girl before. My friend V. loved hiking and I went along. I loved it. I was slow but steady, pushing through that painful first hour slog. At some point the endorphins would kick in. And it was still hard work and effort but somehow easier, and I could lift my head and breathe in forest and decomposing leaves and dirt and rocks under my feet.

We would rent a car some weekends and get out of town, but there was one local hike we did several times. The Grouse Grind was 20 minutes from downtown Vancouver, called Grouse because it was on Grouse Mountain, called the Grind because, well, you can imagine. The hike itself was just straight up, no views until the summit, climbing underneath the cut in the trees made for the ski lift towers. Full of fitness freaks and runners and folks just doing it for the workout. But the great thing about the Grouse Grind was that once you got to the top there was a restaurant and you could hang out and enjoy the view out over the city and the ocean, and then you took the gondola back down. No downhill climb.

Because the downhill part of any hike was not fun. Worse than that first hour. It would start out easier. But once you’re into the second or third hour it just hurts. You’ve been hiking all day, the glorious views are gone, and every downhill step is slamming your foot into your boot, ankles are whimpering, knees getting creakier, pack getting heavier, how much further, are we there yet, when will this end.

It took me a few hikes to follow V’s example and have a pair of sandals waiting for me to change into when we got to the car. The sweet sweet relief of taking those hiking boots off.

Many years later, when V and I had both left Vancouver and were living in very different places but still in touch, we travelled to New Zealand together. It was a tour group. I decided to take a big trip to honour my 40th year on the planet. I was still in the weight-loss mindset then, and I was at the “fittest” I had been, working with a trainer, I was in “great shape”, after something like a year of my “I’m not dieting, just getting healthier!” (that’s a lie) regime. This trip is when I first noticed my body’s rebellion against the restriction. The tour was an active one, involving hikes, kayaking, bike rides, and also great GREAT food and interesting accomodations. It was a really really great trip, I’ll always be happy I did it. One morning, sitting with our group at a long wooden table, chatting and laughing, I ate six pieces of PB&J toast. Because the bread was so fresh and good and I started hungry and my body kept saying “more”, and at the time I told myself “I’m working hard” and it was fine. And then it never stopped.

ah, New Zealand.

The trip was so great. And you can probably guess what happened to my body and my “fitness” and my shape and my shame in the months and years later.

I couldn’t hike a mountain today, twenty-six years later. I can barely walk 20 minutes without back pain that makes me need to sit down. In the years since that trip I’ve done some work and reading and journaling and it’s still in progress but also, I’ve made a lot of progress. I’m 56 years old, figuring out how to live in my body in ways that honour me and it, because they are the same, and trying to shrink myself has never, not once in my 56 years, served anything - not my body, not my heart, not my spirit. And, so, the mountains have changed, but I keep moving.