A New Companion on the Trail

The common denominator in all these conditions—whether in the lungs, the muscles, or the bones—is overwhelming pain… It’s not a question of whether you will hurt, or of how much you will hurt; it’s a question of what you will do, and how well you will do it, while pain has her wanton way with you.

Daniel James Brown in The Boys in the Boat

The passage above is from the bestselling book about the University of Washington rowing team that won Olympic gold in 1936. You may have seen the movie, which is excellent, but as always the book is better, going into greater detail about the sport and the lives and challenges of the young men who accomplished that feat. I would not suggest for a minute that hiking and backpacking require the same physical demands as training for a rowing team, but the passage got my attention because it reminded me of the aches and pains associated with any strenuous activity.

I am reminded of this fact every morning when I get out of bed. Many years of carrying a heavy pack along miles of mountain trails has had its way with my back and hips. Over the past several months I have tried physical therapy, cortisone injections, and the overused advice of “taking it easy.” Nothing has helped much, and recently I learned that hip surgery is not an option because my injuries are not arthritic.

Instead I am just torn, not inflamed or broken. I have what is being called a repetitive use injury. I laughed when I heard this. Of course I “repeatedly use” my hips. I walk with them everyday, and I have hiked and backpacked for about seventy years. It does not surprise me in the least that my hips and back are starting to complain about all of this.

Now that surgery is not an option, it leads me to the next question: What to do about all of this? The answer is simple, everything I love to do, which at least for now includes hiking and backpacking. I now set out on the trail with a new companion. . . pain. . . and so far she has been a reasonable one if I pay attention to what she has to say to me. She makes some demands on me: to sit and rest more often, to hike shorter days, and especially to lighten the load that I carry. These things seem reasonable and in many ways have made my hikes more enjoyable. Taking the time to sit and savor the mountain landscape cannot be a bad thing unless I am in a hurry, and these days that almost never happens. It is one of the many gifts of aging.

A few days ago I went on a hike with a group of friends who get together once a week to explore the local trails. It was the first time I had joined the group this summer, not because I cannot do the hikes but because I have feared slowing my friends down. Apart from the inconvenience of causing them to wait for me, there was that other unwelcome friend, my ego. Letting that go, the need to prove anything to others, has been an important part of this journey, yet another gift of aging.

When we reached the top of Profanity Ridge in the Kettle River Mountains, we sat down in the sun to eat our lunches, and several women began to ponder Mt. Leona rising above us, and what route they might follow to the summit. I knew that I could do the climb, but I also knew that I shouldn’t. The slopes were covered with downed logs from a fire several years ago. Climbing was one thing, climbing over was quite another matter. I would pay for it at the end of the day.

There is a kind of comfort in all of this, honoring my needs and feeling good about it, enjoying this new acceptance which has been so long in coming. There is indeed a satisfaction that comes when you have won the race, and your aching body cries out to you with every stroke of the oar, every step on the trail. I am grateful for all of my long hikes and heavy packs and the wondrous places they have taken me. I am grateful as well for this new peace that I have found, with thanks to an old aching body