Finding Strong

A lot of what we experience as strength comes from knowing what to do with weakness.

Barbara Ehrenreich in Nickeled and Dimed

Recently I purchased a home on the Olympic Peninsula, a place that is familiar to me and has felt very much like coming home. I wanted to be closer to my family, to escape the long cold winters of northeastern Washington, and most of all to create a sense of ease in my life that has been missing since my husband’s death nearly two yeas ago. I wanted to be able to walk to the things I enjoy doing: the yoga studio, good restaurants, the farmers’ market, even medical care.

I was also looking forward to hiking these trails I know so well, the gradually sloped river valleys, gentle hikes for gentle days. Yet I was disappointed last week when I drove to the Elwha River and found that the road had been closed by a landslide, a not uncommon occurrence in these mountains with their heavy rains. When this happens, the park service simply closes the road, extending the hike to the old trailhead, and eventually the road becomes a trail, though that process takes many years. The closure adds considerably to the mileage, meaning the route with its lovely loop to an old homesteader’s cabin can no longer be accomplished in a single day.

Not wanting to drive much further I turned around and headed back through Port Angeles towards Hurricane Ridge, where I made an abrupt and rather precarious turn on what many people consider to be the “scariest road in the state.” The road is steep, narrow, at times traversing a ridge top with thousand foot drop-offs on either side. There are turnouts for passing, definitely not for the faint of heart. It ends after seven miles at a trailhead, appropriately named Obstruction Point.

Not surprisingly the trails are more rugged than the road, but I trust my strong legs more than I trust other drivers. Nevertheless my hiking has been limited for the last couple of years due to a hip and back injury last summer. I was looking forward to a gentle hike. There is nothing gentle about the trails that depart from Obstruction Point. I stood at the intersection of three trails and gazed at the switchbacks that criss-cross down the hillside towards Badger Valley.

Here is how I make such decisions. I do the thing I think I cannot do. It has always worked for me. Yes, it would be a difficult climb out of the valley to return to the trailhead, but even if I had to get down on my hands and knees I could still make the trek simply because I had to.

No hands and knees were necessary as it turned out, though I did not complete the entire eight mile loop. Instead I turned around when I got to Badger Valley and walked slowly up the hill, one step at a time, as I have always done and as I did that day. I stopped twice to rest briefly. I would not say that the hike was easy, but it was certainly less difficult than I had anticipated.

The difficult part is thinking about it in advance, as is the case with any challenging task. And the best part is arriving at the top after the long trek has been completed, feeling smug with pride and grateful that I can still accomplish rugged treks. I had not planned on doing a difficult hike, but I am glad that I did. I was reminded once again that most things I have learned about life have come to me on the trail, whether it is scrambling to the summit of a high peak, pitching my tent in a rain storm, raising my two daughters as a single parent, or adjusting to my new life as a widow. If I have a single guiding principle it can be summed up in just four words, “I can do this.”