I Can Do Hard Things

I may have mentioned my friend Terri in an earlier blog post. Terri is also from Nashville but spends most of the summer out here in Crested Butte. She lives near me on Mount Crested Butte. We met here and bonded over our shared hometown. Terri is a natural athlete. We are about the same age but she plays several sets of tennis a week, goes to pilates regularly, and hikes. Every day. This woman hikes.

A couple of weeks ago Evans had to be away. During that time, Terri called and asked if I wanted to join her on a hike. I said yes, partly because she asked, partly because I was stir crazy, but mostly because I am determined to do new things even if they are hard.

Both our townhouses face the front ski slopes of Mount Crested Butte. The smaller ski slope is called Red Lady. If you read my blog about my ski debacle last February you know that even Red Lady is steep and tall. I knew this when I agreed to go. Terri said we would walk up the western trail and take the ski lift down. I told her I would do my best. I laced up my cool, cute, still somewhat new hiking boots, put a snack bar in one pocket, grabbed a water bottle and walked down the hill to meet Terri.

We walked down several flights of steps to get to the pedestrian bridge that leads over to the base village. (This is important as you will see later.) Within minutes we were headed up a trail that traversed across the base of the ski mountain and into the woods. So far so good. I was hiking.

I mostly stared at either my feet or Terri’s feet in front of me. We would occaisionally stop to admire a wildflower or take a photo. Actually, this was Terri’s kind plan to stop so I could catch my breath, not that I was not fascinated by the number of wildflowers still blooming or the amazing views as we climbed higher.

Crested Butte is famous for being the home of mountain biking. During the summer, bikers hook their mountain bikes to the Red Lady lift and then careen down the mountain on any number of trails, including the one we were walking up. Happily, Terri is used to this and recognized the sound of a mountain biker racing down the trail in our direction. I was focusing more on the sound of my own breathing and self-talk encouraging myself to keep walking. I quickly learned to jump when she did and to throw myself off the trail usually just before becoming yet another obstacle to be jumped or run over.

About two–thirds of the way up I thought back to my promise to “do my best” when I agreed to try my first hike. I realized that when the plan is to “hike up” and “ride down” there is no “do your best.” You just keep walking until you get to the lift.

We made it. We finally got to the top of Red Lady. We boarded the chairlift and rode down. It was beautiful and I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I had done my first hike. It was over four miles, pretty much all uphill, and I had made it. I was feeling pretty good about myself.

We headed home and walked across the pedestrian bridge arriving on our side of the valley and at the base of all those steps. There are fifty-three steps in a series of short flights that lead from the pedestrian bridge to the parking lot of Terri’s condominium complex. Fifty. Three. Steps.

Terri left me right before the last short flight and went to her own home. I climbed those last five steps and slowly, very slowly, began to walk across the parking lot. I made it as far as a short wall that surrounds a fire hydrant. I must have sat there for ten minutes. I seriously considered just how vulgar it would be to throw up in public in broad daylight. I didn’t do it, but I thought about it for a long time.

Then I walked home. Up hill. All the way. The only way I got from that fire hydrant to my own front door was to stare at my feet and pretend I was back in high school in band camp. I counted to eight over and over. I knew that eight steps equaled ten yards. Some things you never forget. So I dragged myself home ten yards at a time. That mountain has nothing on Marcellina Lane. Marcellina Lane is my Via Dolorosa. I stood at the base of the steps leading to my front door for a very long time, but I eventually climbed them.

I texted my friends that I did not die. It was not a joke.

I felt like death for the rest of the day. I really did. I was very glad to be home alone. Any hiker’s high I had experienced at the top of Red Lady stayed up there.

We have a friend who often tells her three-year-old that she can “do hard things.” So, when Terri texted me the next morning asking if I wanted to go up a different route on Red Lady I said yes. It was no easier. This time we hiked both up and down. The steps coming home were just as brutal and I sat on the wall by the fire hydrant just like I had done the day before. But I did it. I did it. I can do hard things.