I was dying. Of this I was completely convinced. Kaela Anne had persuaded us that this hike was one for the books and was up there at the top of her list of favorite hikes. She had done it. She had done it on an empty stomach and hadn’t even broken a sweat. She had talked about it for a couple of years before we finally made the trek up that butte. Black Butte. For those not familiar with Oregon, it’s the pyramid shaped black hill/mountain north of Highway 20, just before you get into the town of Sisters. It looks like something right out of Egypt, save for the pine trees, …and mountains. Well, and it wasn’t made of sand. Whatever- it looked very Egyptian.
Jake (the hubbs), suggested that we make the hike as a bud-gesture to K. I suppose we had kind of put it off because I was still feeling my way through this new diagnosis called Fibromyalgia (and still am) and didn’t know if 1) I had the stamina and 2) if I wanted to “pay” for this day. But I’m pretty stubborn so off we went – myself, Jake, Kaela, our two girls, Emily (21), Morgan (19), and Emily’s boyfriend, Jake.
Those switch backs, the continuous incline, that dirt, those dry heaves… As I was saying – I was dying. I knew I had a reason to feel like I did. A good reason. For the past 2 1/2 years I had struggled with symptoms I didn’t understand, a diagnosis I really didn’t understand, and a frustration I had never felt before. Slowly my body had been getting weaker and weaker because of pain I couldn’t comprehend. I had become less and less active because I was scared of doing actual damage to my body. I knew that any exertion was going to catch up with me and I would most definitely pay. It was affecting me mentally too. Not depression. More like… denial. My brain didn’t want to accept what my body already had. This ridiculousness would go away. Eventually. Right?! Pshh.
So back to what I was saying – I mentioned I was dying, right? Oh, and did I also mention that there were 65 year old men running past me to get up that butte? RUNNING! These grampies were lapping me and killing my self esteem with every stride of their dirty New Balance tennies! Crap. I had to keep going now. Pride was at stake. And yeah, it stung.
Now let me play out this scene for you. <Eye roll> Emily’s Jake is leading our little pack, looking like he’s on a Sunday stroll, not breaking a sweat, and not even in hiking gear. Let me also mention that he was strolling with 1 hour of sleep under his belt after working a 12 hour shift the night before. Emily, much to the relief of my pride (oh, but clearly hurt my heart as a mom) was bent over, hands on her knees actually dry heaving. Nope, wasn’t me dry heaving. It was her. Suddenly I didn’t feel like such a weenie. Morgan was coming up behind Emily just about as salty as the bottom of a pa’tatah chip bag. Kaela was climbing behind her, casually mentioning how she didn’t remember it being this challenging. “Seriously, I don’t remember it being this hard.” Me, hiking directly behind her, used what precious oxygen I had to ask her, “When was the last time you made this hike?” “Ummm… 10 years ago?”, she shyly replied. “WELL HELL, WOMAN, I was in my 20s ten years ago!!!” And then I had to stop because my exclamation had cost me my cadence. I’m pretty sure Jake bumped right in to the back of me as I came to a direct halt. I probably could have done this hike with a 50 pound weight ten years prior! “For the love of… oooh, pretty.”
I had to admit, the view from where we were was pretty amazing, but I was a little sidetracked by the burning in my body, my annoyance with my bestie, the lack of oxygen in my lungs and the dirt I could taste in my mouth.
At this point it was sheer tunnel vision and stubborn pride pushing half of us up that hill. Right about the time I had just given in to the fact that I might pass out before we would reach the top, there it was. Holy crap. That view – all 360 degrees of it. I just… WOW. I did a full spin to take it all in. The Three Sisters, Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Three Fingered Jack, Broken Top, Mt. Washington, Mt. Rainier, Sisters, Black Butte Ranch, eastern Oregon, the forest. You could see it all. It was extraordinary. The terrain up top wasn’t half bad either. The old white cabin lookout, the fire watch tower, and the chipmunks. The scenery just kept coming!
I walked over to the tiny old white watch tower and sat down on a rock overlooking the ledge. I pulled a bag of cashews out and was absorbing the scenery when a few chipmunks came out of hiding, homing in on my bag of nuts. This might have been the highlight of my hike. Sitting there with the kids, feeding these fat little critters (obviously used to being fed by fellow hikers) and playing tug-of-war with the larger cashew pieces that I was trying to break in half for them. Day made. We walked around the summit for a bit taking it all in, recovering from the climb, taking pictures, and patting ourselves on the back.
Oh yeah, and I forgave Kaela at that point too.
The hike back down was effortless. I was able to enjoy more of the scenery, which included the wildflowers, the scorched trees from a previous fire (isn’t there beauty in that too?), and the overall landscape. Emily and I carried on a conversation about spiritual beliefs and I learned a few new things about my girl in the descend of that hill. Good talk. Good hike. Good people. Good day.
At the bottom of that trail, we sat on the edge of the table top of a picnic table looking at our dirt covered shoes and legs. “#dirttherapy”, Morgan stated. Yeah. It was a successful dirt therapy day. We tried something new. We learned something new. We got lost. We got dirty. We felt accomplished and proud. Hell, I could have just stepped off of a real mountain, as big and as bad as I felt. I think it was then I really understood what dirt therapy would mean to me. I had limitations. I worked a stressful job. My body and mind betrayed me on a daily basis. I was ‘adulting’ the best way I knew how. But I went trekking up a hill I didn’t think I could manage. I “oooh’d” and “awww’d”. I felt a renewed appreciation for this place that I called home. I felt this primitive connection to my immediate surroundings. It was foreign and familiar. My southern family would say I had become a tree-huggin’ hippie at that moment. Contentment. Calmness. Peace. Yeah, I’ll take that.
Now, I realize there are plenty of avid outdoor adventurers that may not see that hike as much of a challenge, or appreciate the beauty that I saw though my eyes, or even feel that connection to nature that I did at that moment. I’m okay with that. The point is, that hike meant something to me. It was my therapy. It was my experience. I had effing done it and I had the dirt to prove it. Well, and the pictures. Proof, yo.
Damn it, Oregon – you did it again.
Peace, love, and dirt.
Photo: Black Butte Trail, Deschutes National Forest, Oregon
Dirt Therapy 